Do Unto Others
by Halcyon5
Summary: AU. A small group of Jedi flees Coruscant after Sidious's purge, making contact with unexpected allies who may be able to help them regain what was lost.
1. A Small Misunderstanding

Chapter I

Coruscant

Galactic Senate building

The Galactic Senate building in the light of day was truly a sight to behold. Towering above the nearby cityscape of the city-world Coruscant, the massive dome was the heart of the Republic. It was here that the Senate met to discuss issues of galactic policy and importance. On most days, the building was surrounded by tourists, crowds of people fighting to get one last look at the legendary structure.

Not today. Today, something was wrong, something that the people didn't see, but rather felt. The air, normally charged with energy and debate, was heavy and still. The massive dome, instead of brilliantly reflecting the rays of the sun, seemed darkened, foreboding.

Malevolence. The air around the dome was heavy with it. Few crowds clustered around the building today. Those few that did shuffled by quickly, hands buried in their pockets and staring resolutely at the ground. A cold, bitter wind blew several pieces of trash across the steps of the building. The Senate square was a ghost town.

Two small figures stumbled down the steps of the rotunda, insignificant against the massive bulk of the Senate building. Closer inspection revealed the two to be Jedi, wearing the distinctive garb of the Order. One was young, with a dramatic shock of brown hair and a mechanical hand, while the other was older, with a shaved head and dark skin.

They were definitely anxious, and the surrounding populace gave them wide berth. When the two Jedi finally reached the street, the younger one collapsed, sitting down heavily on the bottom step and burying his head in his hands. The dark-skinned Jedi leaned down and grasped the younger man' arm. "Come, Anakin," he hissed urgently. "We must warn the Council. If we move quickly enough, perhaps we can salvage this."

Anakin turned his face upwards to face the older man, a Jedi Master by the name of Mace Windu. With shock, Mace realized that there were tears streaking down the younger man's face.

"It's all my fault, Mace," he whispered. "I failed, and now the galaxy will pay the price."

Mace patted Anakin on the back. "The temptation of the dark side is extreme. Perhaps now you will realize how easy it is to fall into it. But now," he said, extending his hand to Anakin, "we must fly. The Council must learn of this treachery immediately. It will not be long before Palpatine comes after us."

Anakin nodded, setting his jaw and taking the proffered hand. A blue fire smoldered in his eyes as he stood. Mace was right. There was still time to stop the key from turning, but that time was running short. Palpatine would not delay long; there were probably troops hunting them as they spoke.

"Then let us act," he said grimly. Mace gave a nod of approval, and the two Jedi looked into a nearby speeder, Anakin piloting as they sped towards the Jedi temple. Normally the Jedi would have never dreamed of simply taking an unoccupied landspeeder, but in this case, the circumstances demanded it.

Anakin was glad of the wind as the speeder screamed through the busy sky-traffic lanes of Coruscant. It kept the tears from returning.

It had all started when Anakin had gone to the Chancellor of the Republic, Palpatine, when he had visions of his secret wife, Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo, dying in childbirth. Palpatine offered way to save Amidala from death through the dark side of the Force, and that was when Anakin had realized that the leader of the Republic and Anakin's longtime mentor was actually a Sith Lord. Shocked by the magnitude and extent of this betrayal, Anakin informed the Jedi Council. Equally disturbed by the news, the Council sent Master Windu and three other Jedi to arrest the Chancellor before he turned on the Republic. When Anakin had arrived at the Chancellor's quarters, he found the other three Jedi dead, and Windu holding a lightsaber to the Sith Lord's throat. Palpatine-no, not Palpatine, _Darth Sidious_, Anakin reminded himself-had once more tried to tempt Anakin into falling to the dark side, and Anakin almost gave in. He was stopped, however, at the sights of the slain Jedi, whom he had known as friends for years. When Sidious saw that Anakin could not be swayed, he called in clone troopers to attack the two Jedi, forcing them to abandon their arrest of the Chancellor to defend themselves and escape.

"So stupid," Anakin murmured to himself, still in shock that he had been so easily taken in by the Sith Lord. He wasn't alone; the pseudo-Chancellor had duped most of the order as well.

In the passenger seat, Mace saw Anakin muttering to himself. The truth was Mace was in no better mental straits. He, of all people, should have seen this coming. Out of the entire Order, Mace had been the most distrustful of the Chancellor, but never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that the seemingly harmless old man would have turned out to be a murderer.

Both Jedi were so wrapped up in their thoughts that neither noticed that Anakin had begun to stray into the opposite lane until it was nearly too late. Mace had to grab the armrests to keep from being flung out of the speeder as Anakin wrenched the controls to the side to avoid an oncoming taxi. The driver of the taxi, an insectoid Rodian, flashed an obscene gesture at the two Jedi as he passed.

"Sorry," Anakin said as he once again settled into the correct lane. "I was a little distracted."

Mace merely nodded an unclasped his fingers from the chair. He could understand the younger Jedi's anxiety.

The two continued to draw closer to the temple, but Mace began to feel they were not going fast enough. Sidious surely would have had a plan for this contingency, and with the Republic's clone army almost entirely under his direct control, he had more than enough forces at his disposal to hunt down the Jedi and seize power.

Mace felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he began to sense danger in the Force. He shifted nervously, glancing from side to side.

"Do you sense it too, Master?" Anakin asked.

Mace glanced at the other Jedi, surprised at the calm in the younger man's voice. Perhaps this latest encounter had humbled the normally brash young Jedi.

"Yes," Mace said slowly. "Someone is looking for us."

"Down and to the right," Anakin said.

Surprised at the rapidity of the young Knight's answer, Mace threw a surreptitious glance in the direction Anakin had mentioned. Sure enough, weaving through the busy sky-traffic lanes of Coruscant, was the distinctive orange and white paint job of a clone patrolship. Mace reached out with the Force, probing the minds of the clones to confirm their intentions. There he found a single order: "Kill the Jedi."

That sealed it. They were being hunted. "Cut over that building," he told Anakin.

"Huh?" Anakin said, casting a strange look at the older Jedi. That was something he would have done, but didn't expect to hear coming from the mouth of Master Windu.

"Cut over that building," Mace repeated, and edge in his voice. "We won't get to the temple in time this way."

"Yes, sir," Anakin said enthusiastically. He kicked the speeder into gear and jerked up, lifting the craft out of its traffic pattern to rise into the sky.

Unfortunately, it didn't go unnoticed. As Mace watched the patrolship suddenly pulled up to follow them. "We've got company," Mace said as Anakin increased speed even more, roaring over the roof of the skyscraper and nearly deafening the civilians on the top floor.

"They might try to arrest us first," Anakin started, but his statement was cut off as a pair of brilliant blue blaster bolts streaked past them and blew a speeder-size chunk out of a nearby skyscraper.

Mace glanced backwards, holding his stomach and fighting not to vomit as Anakin executed a violent barrel roll, and saw the patrolship maneuvering for another shot. He turned back. "I think it's safe to say they're not trying to arrest us," he said.

"Roger that," Anakin said. "Hold on to your seat, Master."

"Wha-?" Mace began, but was cut off as Anakin suddenly and violently threw the speeder into a high-speed dive, screaming through several traffic lanes and narrowly avoiding a collision with a gigantic passenger liner.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Mace said as Anakin began to level out. He glanced back to see the patrolship still following them.

Anakin shot him a rakish grin. "Watch and learn, Master."

The younger Jedi definitely had an aptitude for piloting, Windu found out. With breathtaking speed and skill, Anakin deftly piloted the clunky speeder through the bustling lanes of Coruscant, always staying one step of the patrolship. Mace winced as another pair of blaster bolts screamed by. Traffic was scattering to make room for the chase, but that only made things even more chaotic. As Windu watched, a pair of taxis slammed into each other with a brilliant fireball. Anakin whipped the speeder to the side to avoid the collision, narrowly avoiding another volley of lasers.

Those were too many lasers for just one craft. Mace glanced back just in time to see another two patrolships fall into position on either side of the original one.

"More of them," Mace said. He looked over and saw Anakin furiously manipulating the controls, tongue hanging partway out of his mouth. "Good," he said. "I always enjoyed a challenge."

Mace contemplated rebuking the Knight, but decided now was not the time. Instead he looked up to see another patrolship descending from the clouds.

Anakin saw it too. By now he was juking the speeder from side to side to avoid an incessant stream of blue fire. Without warning, Anakin inverted the speeder and dove, whipping through a pair of freighters with inches to spare.

"Would you at least warn me before you do that?" Mace asked indignantly, smoothing down the hair on the back of his neck.

Anakin gave a small smile as he flipped the speeder again to avoid another volley from their dogged pursuers. "You sound just like Obi-Wan," he said.

Mace snorted. He could now see why Master Kenobi had lost so much hair dealing with this man as a Padawan. "I'd rather sound like Obi-Wan than get killed in a-" Mace froze in midsentence as the pilot of an oncoming taxi panicked, sending his craft out of control. Anakin reacted smoothly, deftly slipping over the barreling taxi and whipping down a narrow corridor between two towers.

"-crash," Mace finished.

"Make yourself useful and tell me how many there are left," Anakin said, his brow knitting in frustration as he whipped the speeder from side to side, narrowly avoiding more beams.

"I'll try," Mace said, "but it's a little hard with you whipping us around like that."

Anakin gave a mirthless laugh. "You wanna drive?"

Mace shut up and turned around. "One pair left, he reported, ducking as a quartet of lasers passed just overhead, singing the paint job on the speeder. "We lost two of them."

"Halfway there," Anakin said optimistically. Both Jedi, however, knew they were in trouble. In this narrow corridor, it was becoming tougher and tougher for Anakin to dodge the streams of blaster bolts. If they didn't break out of here soon…

As if on cue, the speeder roared out of the gap between the two buildings and out into the open air. In the distance loomed the massive towers of the Jedi temple.

"Almost home," Anakin said, diving through yet another traffic lane. The area around the temple was mainly lower buildings, and Anakin took full advantage of that, descending until they were skimming mere meters above the rooftops.

Mace glanced backwards; the two remaining patrolships were still there, jostling for position to get another shot in. With the temple close, the clones sensed their prey was escaping and latched on to the speeder like a pair of mynocks.

Mace felt the speeder stabilize, a strange feeling now that he was accustomed to the violent maneuvers Anakin had been pulling before. He was shocked to see that Anakin had leveled out, flying relatively straight over the rooftops.

"What are you doing?" he yelled over the rushing wind.

"Just trust me," Anakin said.

Mace stared at Anakin open-mouthed and incredulous. "Are you crazy?" he yelled, ducking as a stream of blue sped overhead. "Do you know what-"

Mace's sentence was once again cut off as Anakin suddenly executed a gut-wrenching turn/dive. Mace saw the rooftops rushing at them and felt sure they would crash when the speeder dropped into a nearby alley. The two patrolships tried to follow, but couldn't get the right angle. Mace winced as the two ships collided with a rooftop in a fireball.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Mace turned back to face forward, letting out the air he hadn't realized he had been holding as they sped towards the temple.

"Just like podracing again," Anakin said nonchalantly.

Mace regarded the young Knight with something close to astonishment. He opened his mouth to rebuke Anakin, but quickly closed it. The Jedi had earned his right to a flippant remark.

The rest of the flight to the temple was uneventful, and Mace sighed with relief as Anakin set the speeder down on a landing pad. He quickly hopped out. "We don't have much time," he said, striding into the temple. "I'm going to call an emergency meeting of the council to get them to evacuate the temple. I know some remnants of the Fleet that will still be loyal to us. We can escape and pick up any survivors across the galaxy. Anakin?"

Mace turned, suddenly aware that the younger man wasn't following him. "Anakin?" He turned around, his jaw dropping when he saw the younger man climbing back into the speeder. "What are you doing?" he yelled.

"I need to pick up a friend," Anakin said, restarting the speeder and roaring off into the sky.

Mace was left standing on the platform, watching openmouthed as the speeder vanished into the sky. He knew Anakin had been headstrong but this was lunacy!

Mace shook his head and turned back to the temple. Anakin could handle himself; right now, Mace needed to act or the whole Order could be destroyed.


	2. Exodus

Chapter II

**A/N: Dear Readers,**

**Thanks for the support so far. Be forewarned; tinkering with the ending of "Revenge of the Sith" like I have so far leaves a lot of loose ends to be tied up, so I'll probably be dinking around in the SW universe for the next few chapters. To answer some questions, yes the Covenant Separatists will feature somewhat, but that's all I'm going to reveal so far. First contact will take place after the Human-Covenant War, as otherwise the UNSC would be so weak it'd really be a pointless story. As for Padmé, well, you'll have to read to find out!**

Jedi temple

Coruscant

"…and so Anakin and I were forced to return to the temple," Mace finished. He was standing in the Council room of the Jedi temple, where an emergency meeting of the Council had been called. Because of the demand the Clone Wars had placed on the Order, over half of the Masters on the Council were attending via hologram.

There was a heavy silence that hung in the room as the Masters considered the matter. Finally, Master Yoda spoke. "Grievous news, this is," the wizened old Jedi said, shaking his head sadly. "That we have been fooled so completely, blind we were."

"With all due respect, Master Yoda," Mace said gently. "This is not the time to discuss our mistakes. Even now, Sidious doubtlessly has troops closing on the temple. Every minute we debate is a minute closer to our elimination. We need to evacuate the Jedi from wherever we can before Sidious issues Order 66."

This drew confused looks from the Jedi. "And what is this order you speak of?" asked Master Ki-Adi-Mundi.

Mace took a deep breath. "Sidious mentioned it as I was dueling with him. It is the order for all of the clones across the galaxy to kill their Jedi generals. Needless to say, we cannot trust the clones in this venture."

This latest statement was met with mutters of shock and anger among the Council members, many of those attending in the field sending nervous glances over their shoulders.

"If this is true," said Master Shaak Ti, "how can we evacuate? The clones are in control of the entire fleet."

"Not all of it," said Master Kenobi, casting a glance at Mace. "I know a few ships that are still loyal to the Jedi. Admiral Yularen and his task force have served me well in the past. We may be able to convince them to help."

"Then settled it is," Yoda said decisively, wrapping his claws around the knobby head of his cane. "Evacuate, we must, before Sidious strikes. Masters Windu and Ti," he said, pointing his wrinkled hands at the two Jedi. "Organize the temple's defenses. Hold off the clones until we can escape, you must. Master Kenobi, contact Admiral Yularen, you will." Yoda looked around at the remaining Jedi. "Those deployed, abandon your troops, you must. Escape and rendezvous with us at Cantam, you will. Contact all Jedi you know and tell them, you must."

As one, the Jedi dipped their heads. "It will be done, Master."

With that, the Council disbanded. Master Ti crossed the distance to Windu with swift, gliding steps. "Master Windu," the Togrutan said with a dip of her head. "It shall be an honor to work with you."

"Likewise," Mace said. Outside the Council chamber, a clamor became audible as the news was broadcast throughout the temple and Jedi began rushing everywhere.

Suddenly Shaak frowned, looking around. "Where is Anakin?" she asked.

Mace sighed. "He's…being Anakin."

If Anakin had been flying fast before, he was screaming now. He was literally pinned to the seat by g-forces as he shoved the throttle full open, accelerating at speeds so high it felt like he was podracing again.

He was on a rescue mission, but this time he wasn't going after his former Master or Padawan, or even after a lovable little droid that always seemed to get captured when he was carrying important information. No, this time it was much more personal. He needed to get to Padmé before Sidious did. Now that the Sith Lord knew of Anakin's involvement with the Senator from Naboo, he would doubtlessly try to capture her as a powerful bargaining chip.

Anakin couldn't allow that to happen. He didn't care that the rest of the Order would probably find out he had gone against the code and married the Senator; at this point, he felt obeying the code was moot. The whole Order was about to be wiped out. If he could save Padmé and the twins she was carrying, he would gladly be expelled from the Order.

Perhaps it was this desperation that fueled his mind, but he made it to the Senator's dwelling quarters in record time. He parked the speeder on the pad and sprinted to the door, tapping in the code that he knew by heart. The doors split apart and opened, revealing the home of the Senator from Naboo.

Anakin wasted no time in stepping inside, his eyes searching the room for his wife.

There she was, the figure he knew so well was leaning over a desk, studying some sort of document. She looked up, surprise evident on her fair features.

"Anakin?" she asked slowly. "What are you doing here?"

Anakin's heart ached at the sound of her beautiful voice, and he crossed the space between them in a matter of seconds. "We have to go," he whispered urgently. "The Chancellor is a Sith Lord! He has betrayed the Republic and the Jedi, and it is only a matter of time before he comes after you."

Padmé took a step back, shock playing out across her face. "Is this some sort of joke, Ani?" she asked. "If it is,-"

"It's not a joke," Anakin snapped, a little more forcibly than he intended. "Palpatine killed Masters Tiin, Koth, and Fisto, and he almost killed me and Mace as well."

Padmé blinked rapidly, refusing to believe what she was hearing. Anakin couldn't blame her; he had been in the same ship until a few hours ago. "It cannot be," she whispered quietly, visibly shaken.

"It is," Anakin hissed. Seeing she was still unconvinced, Anakin sighed. "Blast it, Padmé, would I lie to you? We have to leave right-"

Anakin never finished his sentence. A sudden din on the other side of the door of Padmé's apartment indicated they had company.

Anakin cast back his Jedi robe and swept out his lightsaber, igniting it. With a snap-hiss, a brilliant blue-white blade sprang into existence, illuminating the room and humming as he tossed it from hand to hand and brought it up into a ready stance. "Get behind me," he ordered as the door began to heat. Padmé did so unhesitatingly, diving behind her husband as the door exploded inwards and a squad of clone troopers poured into the room. They saw Anakin and opened up.

The Jedi Knight spun his lightsaber furiously, battling away the bolts of energy and deflecting them into the walls. "Get to the speeder!" he yelled to Padmé, his brow furrowing in concentration as the clones spread out to get better angles of fire on him. He gritted his teeth as he widened his stance, deflecting a pair of bolts back into the torsos of a pair of his assailants. The two clones collapsed, fingers twitching spasmodically with charred holes in their armor.

"Now!" Anakin yelled, sidestepping and decapitating a clone who was rushing him with a vibroblade. Without needing further encouragement, Padmé sprinted away towards the speeder, Anakin followed, slowly giving ground to the flurry of lasers directed at him by the clones. It was odd fighting troops he had fought alongside for so long. He would much rather fight droids, he decided as he ran through another clone with his lightsaber and pulled it out just in time to deflect a shot to his face. These clones actually aimed their shots instead of just firing in the general direction of their targets like most droids.

A quick glance confirmed Padmé had made it to the speeder, and Anakin sliced through another clone before deactivating his lightsaber and turning to run.

He had almost made it out onto the landing platform when his boot snagged on a rug and sent him sprawling face-first. Before he could recover, an armored boot was jammed into the small of his back, causing him to gasp as the boot's owner roughly rolled the Jedi over. Anakin blinked and opened his eyes to see a clone with a sergeant's marking standing over him with a nasty-looking DC-15 blaster rifle leveled at the Jedi's face.

Anakin closed his eyes, but instead of the loud blast of a DC-15 discharging, there was a quieter blast. Confused, Anakin opened his eyes to see a charred hole in the clone's normally impeccable white armor. The DC-15 fell form the clone's lifeless fingers and the clone crumpled, replaced instead by the lovely form of Anakin's wife, holding a still-smoking blaster pistol.

"I love you," Anakin murmured as he took Padmé's hand.

"I know," Padmé said, smiling and giving him a quick kiss. "Now come on," she said, turning to jump back in the speeder. Anakin followed as the tramp of armored boots grew louder in the background, indicating more clone reinforcements. Anakin turned, reaching out with the Force and pushing at the troopers as they poured into the room. The white-armored men went down in a tangled pile of limbs, helmets, and rifles, and Anakin seized the opportunity to return to jump into the speeder.

"So what exactly is going on?" Padmé asked as Anakin sped away from the apartment.

"Everything has changed," Anakin said grimly.

GNR _Resolute_

Low orbit, Coruscant

The space above Coruscant was a magnificent demonstration of Republic might. Filled with ships, the system was heavily defended by hundreds of remote listening posts, orbital space stations, and an entire fleet of ships ranging from frigates to Dreadnoughts to Venator-class Star Destroyers and more.

In low orbit, one of those Venators glided through a debris belt-the result of the recent CIS raid on Coruscant-gently pushing aside the spinning chunks of wreckage as they impacted on its shields. At first glance, the Star Destroyer appeared to be just like the thousands of other such ships in the Grand Navy of the Republic, another cog in the machine, if you will. Sure, it was a formidable ship, with its turbolaser banks and proton torpedo tubes, but it was nothing special. Its once grand and ornate hull was pitted and pockmarked with the scars of countless battles, and the paint was coming off in strips.

It was, however, unique among its brethren in that it, along with its task force of two other Venators and three Acclamator-class assault ships, were the only ships in the Republic Navy to not be under direct command of Palpatine. Instead, they were assigned to the transportation and assistance of Jedi.

Its name was the _Resolute, _and it was under the command of Admiral Wulf Yularen.

On the bridge of the Resolute, Yularen was tired. His task force had just returned to Coruscant after an exhausting twelve-day campaign to retake Bothawui and it finally looked like they were going to get a little R&R.

Yularen swept his gaze around the bridge of his ship, nodding approvingly at what he saw. Everything was neat and tidy, just the way it ought to be. That was the good thing about clones; their unquestioning obedience of orders and a willingness to work tirelessly. His bridge crew was an experienced one; Sigma at Communications, Terron at Weapons, Fermion at Sensors, Hal at Operations, and Epsilon at Navigation. He had worked with them for months, and knew their capabilities.

Yularen stood, leaving his command chair and going to stand at the massive transparisteel window that dominated the bridge view. The glittering ball of Coruscant hung below, glowing with the fires of a thousand cities all over its surface. Every time Yularen visited the massive capital, he was humbled by its size, but after the recent CIS raid, it seemed somehow different. Fragile. He turned his gaze to the belts of wreckage floating in orbit as they were herded together by tenders, chagrined to see that many of pieces of debris were from Republic ships. The recent battle had claimed the lives of many good men, and shattered Coruscant's air of invincibility.

All the more reason to end this war soon.

"Helm," he said, "set a course for low orbit, Docking Station 32-Bravo."

"Understood, sir," Epsilon said, turning to his console.

Yularen folded his hands behind his back as the ship moved forwards. Just an hour, he thought to himself. If I could have just one hour uninterup-

"Sir!" Sigma suddenly said, shattering Yularen's wishful illusions. "Communication for you, Priority Alpha!"

Yularen frowned. Alpha priority messages were, as their name denoted, messages of the utmost importance. What could possibly be happening in the aftermath of the battle that required such a tag?

"Source?" he queried.

"It's coming from the Jedi Temple. Sir." Sigma said, and Yularen could have sworn he heard the clone swallow. Yularen felt dread begin to rise in his stomach, slowly gathering and coalescing as it threatened to choke out his mind. "Put him through," he gasped, going to stand near the large holotable in the center of the bridge.

Sigma rattled away at his console for a moment, and then the holoprojector came sputtering to life, spitting up an image of a brown-haired Jedi General. One that Yularen knew very well.

"General Kenobi," he began, "what a pleasure to see you aga-"

General Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master and hero of the Republic, cut the admiral off with an urgent hand gesture. "Never mind that," he said, his normally calm voice strained. "We haven't the time."

Yularen frowned, the vice in his guts clenching tighter. "What's going o-?" he began, but Obi-Wan cut him off again.

"Many, many things," he said, his voice urgent. "Suffice to say, the unthinkable has happened. Chancellor Palpatine is a traitor and a Sith Lord. He has betrayed the Republic and the Jedi, and it is not long before a purge begins."

Yularen blinked in shock as his brain attempted to comprehend what he had just been told. The Chancellor? A traitor and a Sith Lord? That was impossible. The magnitude of such treachery was enormous. "I, that's, it's," he wheezed, fighting for breath. Yularen shook his head violently, attempting in vain to clear it. "That's impossible," he finally spat out. "I can't believe-"

"Believe it or not, it's the truth," Kenobi snarled, and Yularen was taken aback by the sudden ferocity in the normally collected Jedi Master. "Now, the reason I'm contacting you is that your task force is the only one in the core systems that is not controlled directly by the Chancellor. You are our only hope of getting off this planet."

The vice in Yularen's stomach tightened even further, constricting and stifling all thoughts. Obi-Wan's voice became a distant murmur as the fear in his stomach collected into a leaden ball, weighing down his insides as he fought to comprehend what was happening.

"Admiral?" Kenobi asked. "Admiral! Can you hear me?"

Yularen gasped, forcing himself back to the present and pushing away the fear. If it were anyone other than Obi-Wan telling him this, he would have dismissed them as mad and had them arrested. In the many operations with which he had worked side-by-side with the Jedi, however, he had learned that Obi-Wan never, ever lied.

And in that moment, all his loyalties changed. The Jedi, he knew, were not enemies of the Republic. Had it not been for the Jedi, the CIS would have likely stormed Coruscant months ago. And so, in the face of the world he had dwelt in so long collapsing around him, he realized in a moment of sudden clarity that it was his duty to aid the Jedi. He could handle this, he told himself. He was trained for unexpected circumstances. Of course, he had never expected anything _this_ unexpected. He almost managed a smile at the irony.

"I'm here," he said, rubbing his suddenly-sweating palms on the side of his suit and a newfound determination in his voice. "What's the situation?"

"Clone legions are advancing upon the Jedi Temple even as we speak," Kenobi said, in a surprisingly detached tone of voice. "We are currently organizing a defense, but much of our strength is deployed to the Outer Rim systems." Yularen saw a flinch on the Jedi General's features, and he abruptly realized that those Jedi were most certainly doomed. He had heard of Contingency Order 66, of course, but he had always thought it a mere technicality. He had certainly never expected it to be ordered, and especially not by a Chancellor-turned traitor.

"We are currently preparing for an evacuation," he said, "but we must have something to evacuate to. We beseech you, admiral, to allow our transports aboard your ship, so that we may escape this unthinkable treachery before we are slaughtered like a cornered mynock."

Yularen swallowed. That was a tall task, but he had seven ships under his command, and felt confident he could accomplish it. "How many?" he asked.

"There are about three hundred currently at the Temple now," Kenobi said. "Mainly teachers and younglings."

Yularen nodded. Three hundred Jedi were well within his capacity to undertake. "Very well," he said, feeling some of his professional calm that he prided himself so much on beginning to return. Just treat this like any other mission, he thought. Leave the big-picture thinking for later. "We shall aid you."

Kenobi seemed to shrink in size, his shoulders slumping with relief. "You have my deepest thanks, Admiral," he said, his voice raw with emotion, and Yularen realized that the Jedi was even more confused and shocked than he. "We shall never forget this."

He abruptly brought his head back up, as if remembering something. "And one more thing, Admiral. We did not have time to broadcast this message on an encrypted channel. If it is of any comfort, this conversation was likely overheard by half of Coruscant's defense fleet."

_Oh dear._ Yularen blinked. The transmission was abruptly cut, and Obi-Wan vanished, leaving behind a very confused and worried admiral.

"Transmission terminated," Sigma announced unnecessarily, and Yularen was abruptly grateful that these clones were not directly loyal to the Chancellor, or he would likely already be in cuffs and sitting in the brig.

"Fermion, tactical map, now," Yularen said, striding to the holoscreen that displayed tactical data.

"On it, sir," the clone said, his fingers pounding diligently away before a map of the Coruscant system appeared, showing the known positions of the _Resolute _and its task force, as well as the positions of Republic Navy vessels, now outlined in red.

It took a moment for Yularen to get over the oddness of seeing ships he had fought alongside for so long registering as hostile, but once he did, he saw what good fortune they had been presented. Much of the Coruscant Defense Fleet was scattered around the system's edges, at the known hyperspace exit points, ready to ward off another attack by the CIS. A few hours ago it would have been a sound strategy, but now, the bulk of Coruscant's formidable defenses were concentrated away from the planet. It would take them at least two hours at sublight speed to reach the _Resolute_. Yularen would have to leverage those two hours to their limit.

"Contact the captains," he said. "Tell them…what has transpired," Yularen ordered, forcing the words past a knot in his throat. He had no doubts that the captains of the other ships under his command would likely respond to the news the same way he had; however, he could not afford waiting for them to think it through.

"And make it clear that I will brook no argument from any of them," he added.

"Yes, sir," Sigma replied.

Yularen turned back to the tactical screen, surveying the odds he was against. His task force, three aging Venators and another quartet of sleek Acclamator-II assault ships, stood against a squadron of corvettes, four new Venator Star Destroyers, six _Arquitens-_class light cruisers, and a single _Tector_-class Star Destroyer.

Long odds, but Yularen wasn't planning on running them for long.

"Sir," Sigma said. "All captains have acknowledged and await orders."

Yularen swallowed. He hadn't had much time to formulate a plan, and he could only hope that this would work. "Tell them all to take up position behind this debris belt," he said, tapping a position that lay behind a string of floating wreckage and near one of Coruscant's moons. The debris would hopefully help shield the ships from enemy fire, and the moon would provide extra cover for when they punched out-system. "They will engage the enemy in a delaying action while the Jedi are evacuated."

"What about us, sir?" Epsilon asked. "Where are we going?"

Yularen took a deep breath and moved to the bridge window. Already he could see the distant shapes of Republic vessels breaking off their patrol patterns, closing in on the newly-found traitors in their midst.

And then, in a tone reminiscent of a holo-vid action hero, he said, "We're going in."

Jedi Temple, Coruscant

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood on the steps of the Jedi Temple, calling out orders as his voice grew hoarser. The evacuation of the Temple had begun, younglings and teachers being escorted to transport ships in the hangars of the Temple. It had been hard to get the younglings moving, many of them so young, crying at the disturbances and their sudden eviction from their home. Obi-Wan, Mace, and Shaak Ti had taken it upon themselves to organize the defense of the Temple. All battle-ready Jedi at the Temple had been pressed into service, gathering at the top of the Temple stairs to hold off an attack at all costs.

And one of them was missing. Anakin had not been heard from since he inexplicably took off right after dropping off Mace. Obi-Wan felt a thrill of fear, wondering if Anakin was returning to Sidious, if the allure of the dark side had become too tempting.

No. Obi-Wan reached out with the Force, and he could sense his former Padawan's presence, getting ever-closer. He was returning from somewhere, but his aura remained pure and uncorrupted by the influences of the dark side.

Obi-Wan allowed himself a sigh of relief, giving thanks for a small victory in a time like this. Even though Anakin was technically a Knight now, after so many years, Obi-Wan couldn't help but view the younger Jedi as still his apprentice, a fact that irked Anakin very much.

Obi-Wan turned his gaze across the large square that stood in front of the Temple. Any minute now, clones were going to be marching across that square, preparing to stamp out the Jedi once and for all. It was a terrifying prospect, being on the edge of extinction, and Obi-Wan forced himself not to think about it.

A shift in the Force heralded the approach of another Jedi, and Obi-Wan turned to see Shaak Ti approaching, the Togrutan's face lined with concern. "Still no word from Anakin?" she asked.

Obi-Wan sighed and scratched at his chin, where the start of a beard was beginning to develop. "None," he said, "although I can feel his presence getting nearer. I do wish he would give us some warning before he flies off like that."

"And here he comes," said a new voice, as Mace Windu entered the conversation.

"What?" Obi-Wan said, spinning around in surprise as a garish yellow speeder flew overhead, landing at the tip of the stairs.

Anakin was inside. Obi-Wan could recognize that tousled head of hair from anywhere. And beside him was…Padmé Amidala?

Obi-Wan swore, sprinting up the steps to the speeder. What was Anakin up to now?

When he got there, Anakin was in the process of standing up, helping the other person in the speeder-whom Obi-Wan could now definitively confirm was Padmé-and Master Yoda was standing nearby, leaning on that old knotted cane of his as he exchanged words with Anakin.

Obi-Wan knew that Yoda was likely saying exactly what Obi-Wan had planned on, but Kenobi's years of mentoring Anakin forced him to face the Padawan himself.

"What in the nine Corellian hells was that?" Obi-Wan demanded, storming up to the speeder as Anakin helped Padmé to the ground. "Flying off like that without a warning? Without telling us where you're going? You could have gotten killed, you fool!"

"I missed you too, Master," Anakin responded with that roguish grin of his that Obi-Wan found so infuriating. Obi-Wan took in a deep breath in preparation for another verbal tirade, but suddenly felt a restraining tug on his mind in the Force.

"Told him this much, I already have," Master Yoda said. "What is now important is that here he is."

Obi-Wan blew out a breath. "Right. Anyways, what's with the rescue?" he said, gesturing towards Padmé, who seemed to flinch at the gesture.

Anakin seemed to take that the wrong way, and his hackles rose. "Would you rather I have left her to be captured by Sidious?"

Obi-Wan blinked, nonplussed. "No," he began cautiously, knowing that his former apprentice for some reason got awfully touchy when the subject of Padmé was raised. "No," he repeated, "but you're a Jedi Knight, now. We can't have you gallivanting about rescuing every Senator that appears to be in a whiff of danger."

"Well I'm not, am I," Anakin said with that infuriatingly simple yet always-correct logic of his. Obi-Wan reached out to the Force, feeling the cooling energy run through him. His former apprentice always seemed to find a way to annoy his former master to no end, while still somehow salvaging results from his disobedience. It made him extremely hard to pin down.

"In any matter," said Mace as he arrived on the scene. "The important thing is that he's here now. Anakin, you must take your place in the line. Padmé, you should join the younglings."

"I can fight!" Padmé protested, dropping a hand to the blaster at her waist. Obi-Wan sighed in frustration, knowing from experience the obstinate nature of the Naboo Senator. He began to gather his arguments, to explain to her that in the midst of a line of fighting Jedi she would be no more than a vulnerable distraction, when Anakin abruptly leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Padmé's expression flashed from determination to calm in a moment, and she removed her hand from the blaster.

"There is no need," she re-stated as Anakin straightened back up. "I will go with the younglings.

Obi-Wan frowned, his brow beetling. Since when did Anakin hold such an influence over the Senator? What had he said?

"Good, this is," Yoda said. "Calm the younglings, her presence will." Padmé marched off towards the evacuation area, while Anakin stared forlornly at her retreating back.

Obi-Wan reached out as far as he could with the Force without Anakin's detection. A complex cloud of emotions swirled around the two, and Obi-Wan frowned.

There was something going on between those two. Something strange. He was about to open his mouth to ask Anakin about it, but whatever he was going to say would remain forever a mystery.

"The clones!" cried out a Jedi from the front steps. "They approach!"

All thoughts of Anakin and Padmé were immediately banished from Obi-Wan's mind, as he joined everyone else in sprinting to the hastily-constructed defenses as the top of the stairs. He joined the line of battle-ready Jedi, nearly fifty Knights, Masters, and Padawans of all different races, and stared out at the square.

A host of clones was advancing across, the blue trim on their shining white armor marking them as the 501st division. The Republic's elite fighting force. Obi-Wan swallowed. There were hundreds of them, _thousands_, all of them marching forwards in a slow, steady cadence. The regular rise and fall of their armored boots sent tremors through the ground.

Halfway across the square, the legions abruptly halted, spreading out and dropping into firing stances. Many drew vibroblades, preparing to charge the Jedi and provide close-in distractions. Others dropped to prone and kneeling positions to provide more accurate fire. Even more stood behind, waiting.

"Here we go again," Obi-Wan heard Anakin mutter to the side.

For a long minute, the two sides stared at each other across the square, the silence becoming thick and palpable. Obi-Wan shifted awkwardly; staring down the barrels of several hundred blaster rifles tended to make one a little less poised than usual.

Mace, of course, was the one that galvanized the Jedi line. Taking a step forward, he ignited his blade, a shimmering beam of purple-white energy springing into existence with a deadly hum. "Stand firm!" he called, raising his lightsaber high. "And fear no darkness!"

All along the line, other Jedi roared their approval, and blades of blue, green, yellow, and a multitude of other colors flashed into existence. Obi-Wan hit the activation stud on his own saber, and the blade sprang to life with its customary _snap-hiss_. The blade hummed as he moved it through the air, his hand vibrating slightly as he brought the saber into a ready stance.

As the Jedi brandished their weapons, the clones across the square stood firm, unimpressed. Then, as one, they gave their answer.

A tidal wave of blue blaster fire streaked across the square, hammering into the thin line of Jedi with the force of a hammer striking a sheet of paper. Obi-Wan and the other Jedi spun their blades frantically, deflecting the deadly bolts away. Several of the younger Jedi fell under that first barrage, overwhelmed by the sheer number of lasers sent their way. Obi-Wan didn't have time to mourn their loss, however; that would come after the battle, if they survived. Now, he needed to focus on simply staying alive.

Obi-Wan spun his lightsaber around, his brow knitting in concentration as he reached out with the Force, detecting where the bolts would come next and where he needed to move his blade to deflect them. It was grueling work, with the amount of firepower coming their way. All along the line, lightsabers rotated like colorful wands at a light show, sending the deadly lasers back to those who had fired them.

The clones began to advance across the square, firing steadily to keep the Jedi suppressed. At an unheard signal, a company-sized element of the clones sprinted forward from the rest, firing steadily as they began to climb the steps to engage the Jedi in close combat.

"Not…one…step…back!" bellowed Mace, spitting out the words between gritted teeth as his lightsaber wove a web of violet, deflecting bolts into the armor of onrushing clones.

The other Jedi emulated his tactic, deflecting the bolts into the chests of the clones climbing the steps. White-armored figures began to fall, but the clones were firing as well, and several Jedi took incapacitating hits in the legs and arms, forcing them to drop out of line.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath as the clones closed with the top step. Even more were coming up from behind, attempting to overwhelm the meager line of Force-users. Deflecting a pair of bolts back into the chest of a clone, he carried his momentum through into a diagonal slash, laying open the torso of an onrushing soldier. The super-hot blade melted through the plastoid armor in milliseconds, and the man spun away, his agonized cries only adding to the chaotic din of battle.

More clones were arriving at the top of the stairs by the second, and Obi-Wan had no time to ponder the current hopelessness of their situation. It was now kill or be killed, and he had no intention of being the one lying on the ground at the end of the day.

A group of clones rushed at him, attempting to overwhelm him with their speed. Bad move. Obi-Wan was in his element now. He seamlessly transitioned from move to move, deflecting their blaster bolts as he neatly bisected an approaching clone. Another switched clone switched his grip on his DC-15 and swung it like a bat at Obi-Wan's head. Warned of the danger by the Force, Obi-Wan ducked under the blow and thrust, spearing the clone through the stomach. The clone coughed in pain and surprise, spitting up blood that coated the interior of his visor. Remorselessly, Obi-Wan lashed out with his foot, kicking the clone in the chest and sending him sliding off his blade. Obi-Wan then rolled forwards, slicing a thin line across another clone's chest.

Panting with exertion, Obi-Wan fell back to his place in the line and continued battling. Clones were now advancing towards the Jedi over piles of dismembered bodies, but they advanced nonetheless. And these were no senseless droids; clones had been bred to fight and fight effectively, and that was exactly what they were doing. They separated into impromptu hunter-killer groups, ganging up on and overwhelming individual Jedi. Others threw grenades, forcing the Jedi to dodge out of the way of the dangerous blasts. It felt odd to be on the receiving end of tactics Obi-Wan had benefitted from so many times during the Clone Wars.

Obi-Wan gasped for air as he fought, his mouth heaving open. Even the energy provided by the Force could only last so long. He lopped off the arm of an approaching clone, and his eyes widened in alarm as the clone pulled a thermal detonator off his belt with his remaining good hand and charging forward. Desperately, Obi-Wan reached out to the Force and pushed, sending the clone flying backwards, limbs flailing, into a group of his brethren, where the grenade then exploded with visceral results.

Other Jedi were fighting effectively as well; Anakin reached out with the Force to pull a clone towards him while simultaneously thrusting up, skewering the soldier through the chest. Master Yoda fought like a demon, hopping around with mind-numbing speed, his green blade slashing clones to ribbons as they ineffectually tried to target his small form.

Everything began to blur together for Obi-Wan. His moved as if on autopilot, slicing apart his adversaries and deflecting bolts without conscious thought. His arms began to feel leaden, his veins burning with exertion, but he fought nonetheless, feeling the sweat run down the small of his back as he skewered yet another onrushing clone. Letting the trooper's body fall of the blade, Obi-Wan felt a surge of despair. _They just don't end!_ He thought as he hacked through another group of them. Two more Jedi fell, overcome by blaster fire, and Obi-Wan saw in his peripheral vision a Padawan get overwhelmed, the vengeful clones gathering around his body, brutally clubbing him with their rifle butts. Obi-Wan snarled and he reached out with the Force, sending the group of clones flying off the temple steps.

"Hold strong!" Mace cried, battling off a squad of troopers.

Above, a news hovercraft flitted about, and Obi-Wan smiled bitterly. It appeared they were attracting a bit of attention.

"Transports away!" someone called, and Obi-Wan's smile widened as the first of the transports containing the evacuees began to rise into the sky. More followed behind, and for a moment it appeared that the Jedi might yet pull this off.

Those hopes were dashed in an instant, however, and Obi-Wan's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. From the back of the clone positions in the square came a sound all too well; the repeated _fwump, fwump, fwump_, of an anti-aircraft cannon.

Obi-Wan stood stunned as the blue bolts rose into the sky, knowing what would happen but powerless to stop it. The fighting seemed to lull for a moment, and Obi-Wan let the lightsaber fall to his side.

The transports utilized by the Jedi Temple were simple bulk freighters; able to hold large amounts of people and cargo, mainly used to shuffle goods from Point A to Point B. That was something they excelled at. Something they did not excel at was evasive maneuver; the blocky craft had all the maneuverability of a flying brick, and were virtually helpless as the electric blue bolts savaged them from below.

Obi-Wan felt a cry of grief torn from his raw throat as the first transport came apart in a ball of fire, sending debris raining down to the surface. Feeling the souls onboard winking out in the Force felt like someone driving a stake through his heart.

Another AA battery opened up, and another transport disintegrated into flame and wreckage. Obi-Wan fell to his knees, tears beading in his eyes. All of this, all of their work, was for naught. The transports would be eliminated one by one, picked apart by an unstoppable enemy. Then those Jedi on the ground would be surrounded and killed, cornered and with no hope of escape. Obi-Wan looked around. Where once had stood a line of nearly fifty Jedi, barely twenty remained. The others were scattered around, smoking corpses wrapped in charred robes. Was this their fate?

But fate seemed to have different plans; perhaps it was just to amused with Obi-Wan's reactions and decided to keep the emotional roller-coaster going a bit longer, or maybe it was actually sympathizing with the poor Jedi, but for whichever reason, things changed again. Obi-Wan became aware of a growing sound, a dull bass roar that one felt more than heard. The air vibrated around him, booms of thunder becoming audible in the distance.

And then, with a clap of thunder audible from miles away, the cloud cover broke, and something broke through. A Venator-class Star Destroyer sank through the clouds, its hull smoldering and clouds of smoke and steam rolling off of it from the massive heat of its speedy reentry.

Obi-Wan knew that ship, recognized the battle-scarred hull in an instant; it was the GNR _Resolute_. Yularen had come through on his promise; their salvation had arrived.

Another sound assailed his ears now, a higher-pitched vibrato that struck an effective counterpoint to the roar of the engines keeping the massive capital-ship aloft. A pair of the _Resolute_'s detachment of ARC-170 starfighters swooped in, green lasers stitching lines of fire into the clone positions. Each of them dropped a proton bomb on the positions of the anti-aircraft batteries. The subsequent explosions send yet another tremor through the ground and the dreaded and hated batteries vanished in twin explosions, leaving behind only molten craters scattered with bits of cooling metal and plastoid armor.

Meanwhile, the surviving transports, now with a visible goal in mind, headed up to the looming shape of the _Resolute_. "Victory!" laughed a Jedi down the line, holding up his lightsaber. "We have victory!"

Once again, however, the celebration proved to be premature. Obi-Wan abruptly noticed that the rumbling in the air had been growing louder over the past minute; while at first he had dismissed it as a natural result of the _Resolute_'s flash entrance, he now realized that that bass roar had grown too much in volume to be only a single ship.

And when he looked up, he understood why.

The two ARC-170s, which had been turning around to make another strafing run on the clones, suddenly vanished. There was no better word from it; both were struck directly with starship-grade turbolasers. The starfighters' shields were overloaded immediately, the craft vaporized, leaving only a few scattered ashes to drift down from the sky. Shaking with terror, Obi-Wan lifted his eyes skyward, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Breaking through the clouds over the city was a massive line of ships. Frigates, light cruisers, corvettes, and even Acclamator-class assault ships. All of them making a direct line towards the Jedi Temple.

Of course, Obi-Wan thought bitterly. Why waste hundreds of troops storming the Temple when you could just obliterate the Jedi from above?

GNR _Resolute_

"Where the hell did they come from?" Yularen demanded, gesturing to the line of warships that had suddenly broken out of the cloud cover. "Aren't our sensors supposed to detect things like _ships!_"

"Unknown, sir!" Fermion responded, his helmeted head rotating rapidly as he brought up data on his console screens. They may have been hiding in the upper levels of the city's skyscrapers; our sensors may have mistaken them for part of the skyline."

Yularen snarled, stalking back to the window. That didn't matter. All that mattered was now, there was a line of approximately twenty ships bearing down on the _Resolute_. "All discretionary power to shields," he ordered as the ships' turbolaser batteries began to warm up, the barrels crackling with energy. "Terron," he said, "engage at will, but be forewarned; we cannot afford for this to become a protracted engagement."

Terron nodded. "Understood, sir," he said, activating the _Resolute'_s DBY-827 dual-cannon turbolaser batteries. The _Resolute_ struck first, sending a volley of blue lasers at the approaching line of Republic ships. Yularen nodded with approval as he saw that Terron had targeted one of the weaker ships, an _Arquitens_-class light cruiser near the fore of the line. The smaller ship's shields flashed as they valiantly tried to repel the massive firepower, but then winked out, the ship succumbing to the blasts and breaking apart in a brilliant explosion. The detonation forced several other ship nearby to swerve off their attack runs to avoid the debris, which would also clog enemy sensors.

Another kill to add to the _Resolute_'s lengthy list, as well as its first kill of a fellow Republic ship. Yularen wondered how long that list would grow before this escape was over.

Apparently, not too long, if the next event was any indication on how things would go. Just as Terron picked out his next target, the Republic ships responded, sending a wave of turbolaser fire towards the battered Venator. The bolts impacted on the cruiser's starboard side…and did no damage whatsoever. The _Resolute_'s shields burned a brilliant gold as they repelled the murderous barrage, before fading back to their transparent state.

"Status?" Yularen asked.

"Starboard shields at eighty-three percent and holding steady, sir," Hal responded.

Yularen frowned. The Venator's boosted shields were holding, but they couldn't survive more hits like that. "Helm," he said, "maneuver the ship to present our port side to the enemy. Operations; all discretionary power to portside shields."

"Sir!" Epsilon and Hal responded sharply, going about their tasks. Turning your strongest side to face the enemy was an age-old naval tactic, but Yularen hoped it would be enough. "What's the status on the evacuation?" he asked.

"All transports save one have docked," said Hal as he manipulated the shielding. "We're waiting on the final one."

Yularen closed his eyes as the _Resolute_ finished its turn, presenting its fresh portside shields to the enemy just in time to catch another murderous barrage. The shields held, however, and Terron returned the favore, flash-frying several corvettes and blowing a gaping hole in the side of an Acclamator-II.

"Just a minute more," Yularen whispered, turning his gaze to the surface and the Jedi Temple.

"Shield strength at seventy percent!"

_Hurry up, you old bastards_.

"Run?" Anakin suggested, and Obi-Wan immediately felt it was the wisest statement the young man had ever made.

"Agreed," he said.

"Fall back to the transport!" Mace yelled, referring to the last remaining transport, saved for the Jedi defending the front. Immediately, the remaining Jedi broke rank and ran, drawing on the last dregs of their Force-assisted strength to sprint to the transport. That last, panicked run would be remembered as one of the most harrowing moments of the Obi-Wan's life. His legs pumped like pistons. Seeing their prey escaping, the clones of the 501st laid down a withering hailstorm of blaster fire, and several more Jedi fell in that last, final run for safety.

The transport was in sight, and Obi-Wan thought the blocky craft was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. A pair of Temple workers covered the Jedi's retreat with a pair of blaster rifles as the Jedi pounded up the ramp into the hold.

Obi-Wan collapsed into one of the seats, sweating like a Hutt and panting madly. He clipped his lightsaber to his belt as the ramp sealed back up, the guards falling in. Obi-Wan looked around and his heart fell; standing in the hold with him were eleven Jedi. Mace, Anakin, Yoda, Shaak Ti, and several others, all of them visibly exhausted.

Counting him, twelve had survived. Twelve out of fifty. Obi-Wan didn't have the strength to fall to his knees, so instead he sagged back into his chair, unable to summon the courage to speak as the transport rose into the sky.

GNR _Resolute_

"Sir!" Hal said, swiveling in his seat. "The last transport has docked."

_Not a moment too soon_, Yularen thought with relief as the _Resolute_ trembled under the fury of yet another volley. "Helm!" he said. "Flank speed to the rendezvous!"

"Helm is answering flank speed," Epsilon said, and the _Resolute_'s massive engine drives, kept so long in a holding pattern, fired up, finally able to display their true strength.

While the Venator-class was officially designated as a cruiser, its true designation during its development was as a "battlecruiser." The battlecruiser was a much sought-after ideal, able to kill anything that could catch it and outrun anything that could kill it. The Venator illustrated that potential now, as its massive engines accelerated at tremendous speed, pulling its 1,137-meter length up into the atmosphere. The engines pulsed, the kilometer-long ship clawing its way back into vacuum.

Once there, Yularen immediately turned his attention to the rest of his task force that he had left behind to cover their retreat.

It didn't look good.

One of the Venators was dead, a floating, lifeless hulk, atmosphere venting from gaping wounds in its hull. Another Acclamator-II was floating in two halves, adding to the debris belt.

Yularen's heart clenched, but he saw with satisfaction that his men had done well in his absence. Three of the enemy light cruisers were floating in various states of destruction. Two enemy Acclamators were simply gone, clouds of atomized dust marking the spots of their demise. One of the enemy Venators was reeling out of control, a gaping hole in its flank, and the massive _Tector_-class Star Destroyer was floating lifeless, the blue-white electricity signifying an ion-cannon barrage skittering over its hull.

"Hail them," Yularen ordered, "tell them to form up on us."

"Yes, sir," Sigma responded, immediately hard at work. Yularen watched as the ships under his command broke off the engagement, sending a few parting shots at the adversary as they returned to their flagship.

All but one. A single Acclamator-II was not participating in the retreat. Instead, the assault ship drove at flank speed towards the enemy fleet, guns blazing.

"What the hell?" Yularen barked. "Contact him! Find out what the heck he's doing!"

The ship's holoprojector warmed up, spitting up an image of the Acclamator's captain, Argo Draemus.

"Draemus!" Yularen said. "What the hell are you doing? Get out of there!"

Draemus shook his head sadly. "Sorry, sir," he said. "Our hyperdrive was damaged. We can't jump with you."

Yularen's heart sank. He knew Draemus; the man was a good, competent commander, and a good friend. "But-" he began.

Draemus held up a hand. "No buts, sir. If we stay behind, we'll be destroyed either way. We'll cover your retreat." As he spoke, the Acclamator's guns wrecked a pair of corvettes. "Please," Draemus said, "grant me this one last request."

Yularen swallowed, forcing the words past the ball in his throat. Too many good men had died today; watching Draemus's doomed charge was just one more thing he would have to endure. "Yes," he croaked. "Godspeed."

The Acclamator was nearing the target of its suicidal run; the crippled _Tector_. Yularen saw immediately what he was planning.

As the Acclamator came within five hundred kilometers of the Star Destroyer, its shields failed under the barrage of laserfire from the Republic fleet, but it didn't matter. At this range, mass and inertia would do the rest.

On-screen, Draemus saluted. "It has been an honor serving with you, sir," he said.

Yularen returned the salute. "Likewise, captain," he said bitterly. "Do us proud."

Draemus nodded. "Yes, sir." The hologram vanished.

With a heavy heart and leaden feet, Yularen walked to the window just in time to see the Acclamator's last valiant sacrifice. Its hull riddled with holes, it bore down inexorably on the Star Destroyer. At five hundred kilometers, the _Tector_ suddenly came back to life, its captain recognizing the threat bearing down on it. Fingers of green energy reached out, melting meters of armor off the incoming assault ship.

But it was too late. The _Tector_'s brief period of helplessness as it recovered from the effects of the ion cannons had been too long, and the Acclamator's run could not be stopped. Now barely recognizable as a ship, the Acclamator was acting as a simple mass, a manmade asteroid as it drove down the throat of its prey.

Just before the Acclamator impacted, its engines went critical.  
>A brilliant fireball blossomed in the blackness of space, expanding outwards before it eventually died out from lack of oxygen. When it vanished, no trace of Draemus's ship remained. The Star Destroyer was likewise annihilated; only a portion of its bow remained, drifting off into space.<p>

Yularen felt a single tear run down his weathered face.

"Sir," said Epsilon, "the fleet reports they are ready to jump. We have coordinates to Cantam."

Cantam. The empty system where the Jedi had hoped to rendezvous. Perhaps he could form a resistance group there, a rebel force to oppose the traitorous Chancellor. Yularen needed plans for the future to keep his mind off the present. _I wouldn't be alive, if not for Draemus_, he thought bitterly, with a small smile. _The fool always did want to be a hero_.

"Jump," he whispered.

A subtle whine entered the background as the hyperdrive engaged. The pinpricks of stars lengthened into lines, and then the _Resolute_ task force, last free forces of the Republic, vanished into the void above Coruscant.

**A/N: REVIEW! For my sanity's sake!**


	3. Run through the Jungle

Chapter III

**A/N: Wow, guys, I'm really flattered. 1500 hits already? That's better than I expected. I hadn't planned on posting this chapter until Wednesday, but seeing how things are going, I figure I'll post this now and hopefully get an update up by this weekend. **

**Now, to answer some questions (cough cough Jacob): **

**On the involvement of the Master Chief: I haven't decided yet. I reject the assumption made by so many in the crossover section that "it just can't be Halo without the Chief", but he may show up later, just 'cuz I hated Halo 3's ending and he's just so much fun to write. So, for now, no comment.**

**Pairings: …? I don't know. I'm not a very good romance writer. So probably not.**

**On Ahsoka:…I believe that will be answered soon.**

**Spartan IV: This is one that I am willing to answer. Yes, there will be Spartans. How can you have Halo without Spartans?**

**Spirit of Fire/Onyx Spartans/Arbiter: Same boat as the Master Chief for now.**

**And for now, this is taking place approximately forty years after the Human-Covenant War; enough time for the UNSC to rebuild, but not so much time that they've become a mega-power. I don't want this to turn into one of those fics wehre the UNSC takes 'roids and goes and mauls the crap out of SW, like so many stories in this section are. They'll get involved, but it won't be a war they want to jump into.**

**That's all I'm willing to reveal for now. Thanks for suffering through this note, and now…on to the story!**

GNR _Resolute_

Hyperspace, en route Tantim, Amarius System

Anakin Skywalker stood on the bridge of the GNR _Resolute_ with his hands clasped behind his back as it raced through the void at speeds faster than light, losing himself in the swirling wormhole outside. After the battle at the Temple, he had finally had time think. To think about what was happening to the galaxy. It was still hard to believe that Palpatine-old, harmless, partially senile old Palpatine-had turned out to be the merciless, cruel Sith Lord. Even more disturbing was the fact that Anakin had so easily nearly fallen into his trap. Anakin shuddered to think at what could have happened should he have given in to temptation that day.

It would have to be a lesson, he vowed. No longer could he afford to trust blindly. No longer could he afford to allow his love blind him, for the costs of that would be far too great.

Anakin looked around the bridge. All the clones were manning their stations with a diligence that could only be bred, not trained. Their armor stripes had been painted over in red in order to signify their defection from the Republic, that they were now a rebel force. No longer were the clones a unified force as they had been during the height of the wars.

Anakin smiled at that. The Clone Wars. Until a few days ago, the Clone Wars, or, more specifically, finding a way to end them, had been his chief concern. Things had been simpler then; the Republic was good, the CIS was bad, and it was Anakin's responsibility to make sure the good guys won. The universe had been black and white, and everything had its place. Now, the entire galaxy had been turned upside down. Instead of a conquering Jedi General, Anakin was now a renegade leader of a rebel force.

Rebels. Was that really what they were now? A force of a few ships and several thousand men? Was this all that was left to challenge Sidious?

In the days since the _Resolute_'s task force had fled Coruscant with the surviving Jedi, a great deal had changed. Darth Sidious, formerly Chancellor Palpatine, had usurped power, claiming the creation of a Galactic Empire to take the place of the Republic. Contingency Order 66 had been activated, all Jedi declared enemies of the Republic to be hunted down and killed.

Which was what Anakin was currently attempting to stop. While he had returned to Coruscant during the CIS attack, his Padawan, a young Togruta named Ahsoka Tano, had been deployed to the world of Tantim to lead the Republic forces there.

Anakin had to rescue her. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't. That had resulted in quite the argument with Masters Obi-Wan, Mace, and Yoda during their initial flight to Cantam. They had raised the points that Ahsoka was likely already dead, and that there wasn't anything to be done, and that taking one of their precious Venators was a gross misallocation of the few resources they had left. Anakin winced as he recalled how heated the debate had gotten. However, much to Anakin's relief, Admiral Yularen had stepped in on his side. Yularen had worked with Anakin and Ahsoka a great deal during the wars, and said he would gladly accompany Anakin to find her.

So now here they were, speeding through the interstellar void on yet another rescue mission. This time, however, Anakin hoped to be the one doing the rescuing.

"How long?" he asked.

Admiral Yularen, standing beside him, looked over, one white eyebrow raised. "Until we enter real-space? About an hour."

Anakin nodded, mulling that over. "I'll take my leave, then," he said, turning to leave the bridge.

"Farewell," Yularen said as Anakin stepped into the lift and descended into the heart of the warship.

The hallways of the Venator-class cruiser were many and labyrinthine, stuffed with men and droids bustling every which way. Anakin made a way through the chaos, clones stopping to salute him as he passed, until he reached the passengers' quarters.

Taking a look from side to side to confirm that the hallway was empty. Anakin cautiously rapped on the door of room number 532.

There was a moment's pause, and then the voice Anakin knew so well sounded from within. "Come in." The door slid open.

The room inside was dimly lit, only a single lamp bathing it in a soft glow. Anakin stepped quickly inside, letting the door slide shut behind him.

Padmé was inside, sitting on the bunk, reading some dispatch or another on her datapad. She set it aside as she saw him, a small smile gracing her face. "Oh. Hello, Anakin."

Anakin tried his best to smile in response, but for some reason, the muscles around his mouth would not obey the command. He sat down beside her, and she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, seeking solace in her present.

Padmé seemed to recognize his need for comfort, and didn't say anything. She simply leaned against him, holding him as he struggled with his inner turmoil.

"It's all my fault," Anakin said, his voice cracking with emotion, slightly muffled as he covered his face with his hands. "It's all my fault."

Padmé frowned, concern ghosting across her features. "What do you mean, Ani?" she asked.

"All of this," Anakin said, "this insanity. It's all because of me. Palpatine wanted me as his apprentice, and I was too stupid, too blind to see him for what he really was. I let my love for you blind me, and it led to all this."

"And then that love also saved me," Padmé reminded him gently. "Remember? You came back for me."

Anakin's body twitched violently, and Padmé realized he was crying. "You don't understand," he sobbed, the emotions he had held bottled up for so long finally bursting forth as his body was wracked with guilt.

"No," Padmé said softly. "I think I do understand." She lowered Anakin's hands from his face and turned him to face her. Seeing the guilt in those innocent blue eyes pained her to no end. "You were tricked, Anakin. Anyone could have fallen into the same trap."

Anakin shook his head violently. "No, no," he said, "I should have seen this coming. I'm a Jedi Knight. I'm trained to recognize the dark side. And yet I almost let it consume me, and now there's hundreds of Jedi dead as a result. Don't you understand? Their blood is on my hands!"

"Anakin," Padmé said. "Anakin, look at me!" she snapped, a little more forcibly than she had intended. Surprised, Anakin met her gaze, and she continued while she had his attention. "Their blood is _not _on your hands. It is on Palpatine's and Palpatine's alone."

"But I perpetuated his plan," Anakin whispered, the grief in his voice heartbreaking. "I went along with him without even questioning, and then three Jedi Masters died before my eyes, trying to fix what I had done wrong."

"Anakin," Padmé said, trying a different approach. "What does the code say about anger?"

Anakin looked up, confused. Obviously, he hadn't expected this line of conversation. Then, his training asserted itself, and he responded automatically. "Anger is the antithesis of the Jedi way. Anger leads to hatred, and hatred will lead to the dark side." He paused. "I still don't see how this-"

"Anakin, how is what you are experiencing now any different from anger?" Padmé said. "You are angry now, are you not? You have hatred, do you not? But instead of rightfully hating Palpatine, you are hating yourself and blaming yourself. Is that not the same as hating an enemy?"

When Anakin didn't answer, Padmé knew she had him. She continued, pressing her advantage. "Anakin," she said, forcing him to look her in the eye and tracing a hand along his cheek. "If you continue down this path of guilt and self-hatred, make no mistake, it _will _destroy you, just as effectively and surely as a blaster or a lightsaber. And I will not allow that to happen. Anakin, you may have made a bad decision at one point, but who among us has not?"

"But have your decisions led to the death of hundreds?" Anakin responded bitterly.

"Yes."

Anakin blinked, surprised. "Wha-what?" he stammered.

Padmé sighed. "Anakin, do you remember when we first met? On Tatooine?"

"Of course," Anakin replied immediately. "How could I forget?"

"But do you remember _why _I was there?" Padmé pressed.

Anakin hesitated in his response, in the manner of a student who has been asked a question to which the answer is so obvious he is afraid to answer, fearing a trick. "Of course," he repeated. "You were fleeing from Naboo with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, after the Trade Federation blockaded your homeworld."

"Yes, I was," Padmé said, "and I'm sure you're familiar with the occupation of Naboo. Do you remember what the Trade Federation did with my people?" she asked her voice displaying the first hint of sadness Anakin had heard from her in a long time.

Anakin responded slowly, realizing what she was getting at. "They…they rounded them up. Put them in work camps," he said awkwardly.

"That's right. Do you know why?"

Anakin frowned. "Because you refused to sign their treaty."

"Correct." Padmé sighed and removed her arm from Anakin's shoulders, staring straight ahead as if recalling a painful memory. "Hundreds died in those camps," she said, her voice raw with emotion. "Hundreds more were enslaved. All because of my decision to resist."

"But you were right," Anakin protested, but Padmé raised a hand, cutting him off. She looked at him.

"Of course I was right," she said. "I knew that. But that didn't change the fact that because of my decision, I had the blood of many on my hands." A flash of emotion flashed across her face as she recalled unpleasant memories. "For weeks after I returned to Naboo I was unable to sleep. I was totally consumed by guilt. It tormented me wherever I went, asked me why I thought I was better than those others, why did they have to pay for my decision. It got to the point where I had ceased being an effective queen."

Anakin was quiet for a moment, and Padmé sensed she was finally getting through to him. "What did you do?" he finally said.

A faint smile broke across Padmé's face as she remembered the event. "I was sitting down to breakfast one day, and it was one of my handmaidens that raised the topic." Padmé chuckled at the memory. "It was Sabé, I think, the one that took my role during the invasion. She told me flat-out that she thought I had become ineffective as ruler, and that I needed to get my problems sorted out."

Anakin raised his eyebrows, surprised. "She said that to your face?" he said, impressed. "She must have been brave."

Padmé laughed. "She was right," she said. The merriment faded quickly, and Padmé continued. "I remember that night, I thought to myself about it. I asked myself whether there was anything I could have done to prevent what happened, and I came up with nothing. The Trade Federation was the one that put my people in the work camps, not me. The Trade Federation was the one that murdered our brave pilots, not me. And Darth Sidious-"

"-was the one that killed the Jedi, not me," Anakin finished, his voice that of a small child expressing its wonder at something new.

Padmé grinned as relief washed across her. "I knew I'd make you understand." She drew Anakin into a long embrace, which he gladly returned. "You are _not_ evil, Anakin," she whispered in his ear. "No matter what your anger tells you."

"I know," he murmured back, kissing her on the cheek.

For a long time they remained like that, drawing comfort from each other's touch and presence. Finally, it was Padmé that broke the silence. "Oh, Ani," she said, "what are we going to do now?"

Anakin drew back, concern evident in his features and voice. "What do you mean?"

Padmé took a deep breath. "I mean, what do we do now? I'm still a Senator, but I don't know if there'll even _be _a Senate in a while, let alone one they'd let a Jedi friend into. Do we form a resistance group? Fight another war on top of the already existing one, and cause even more dead?"

"I don't know, Padmé," Anakin said. "For the first time in my life, I honestly don't know what to do."

Padmé couldn't help but smile at that. "Oh, so the great Anakin finally admits he doesn't know?" she said, giving him a playful punch on the arm. Anakin laughed and rolled onto the bunk, pulling her down beside him.

"We'll figure it out," he promised her.

Padmé took his hand and placed it on her growing belly. "For their sake," she whispered.

Anakin nodded gravely as he felt the steady beating of the twins in Padmé's belly. "For their sake," he echoed.

The ship's intercom suddenly sounded, startling Anakin into a sitting position. "Entering real-space in thirty minutes," it blared.

Anakin rolled over, giving Padmé a kiss before rolling out of the bunk. "Sorry, luv," he said. "Gotta go."

"Off to save the galaxy again?" Padmé teased as he approached the door.

Anakin turned, giving her a wink. "Until it finds someone else to bother, yeah. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Padmé said, and Anakin stepped into the hallway, the door sliding shut behind.

000

Tantim, Amarius System

Ahsoka Tano, Togrutan Jedi Padawan, one of the most gifted young Jedi in the Order and apprentice to Anakin Skywalker, ran for her life through the jungles of Tantim.

Throwing herself ahead, heedless of the countless gorges she leaped with the help of the Force and raging rivers she waded, she continued to run like a beast gone mad, ignoring the clawing branches and vines that tried to drag her back, snagging on her Jedi robes and drawing lines of blood across her face as she sprinted through the soft jungle loam.

How could everything have gone so terribly, horribly wrong? A wrenching sob was torn from Ahsoka's throat at the traumatic events of the past few days.

It had started with her deployment to Tantim, to help lead the Republic forces there. Tantim was an Outer Rim planet, covered from pole to pole in jungle, broken only by a few isolated settlements. No one really knew why the CIS had decided to dig their shiny metal heels into the dirt of that planet, but there was no question that they needed to be removed. It had been expected to be a relatively easy and quick deployment, the CIS forces (for once) outnumbered and scattered. Anakin had seen it as a good opportunity for Ahsoka to get some firsthand experience leading large elements of troops in battle, and sent her to Tantim in the care of a Jedi Knight, another Togrutan male named Tahaak.

The betrayal had happened three days ago. It had been swift and without warning, merciless and precise, the clones performing it as professionally as any other task. She and Tahaak had been standing outside their command walker, discussing battle plans, when they were suddenly kicked to the ground by the clones behind them, blaster rifles shoved into the small of their back. Ahsoka had been stunned with shock, and it had been Tahaak that saved her life. The other Togruta had summoned a Force push that threw away the trooper pinning her down.

"Run!" he had told her. "Run and don't look back!"

And Ahsoka had run. She had run to the edge of the clearing, but there she stopped, turning around just in time to see Tahaak take a blaster bolt to the back of the cranium. He died in front of her eyes, his face frozen in an expression of pain and betrayal.

She had run again then, into the deep jungle with no idea where she was going, with no food and only a small container of water. For the last three days she had been running. Running away from an omnipresent threat, never sleeping, dining when she could on what small forest animals she could catch and refilling her water whenever possible. At first, in her blind hope and ignorance that this betrayal would be limited to only her forces, she had activated her standard-issue emergency-transponder. It only took a few terrifying encounters to know that the clones were using it to home in on her location. She had turned it off after that.

Togrutans were predators by nature, and stealth was one of their areas of expertise. When Ahsoka regained her wits, she began to cover her tracks and move through the jungle as silently as she could. She managed to lose the clones, until just twenty minutes ago. She had stupidly stopped at a stream to refill her water without checking the clearing first, and was rewarded when a squad of clones emerged from the woods and placed several blaster bolts past her head.

She had dove into the water, swimming downstream as far as she could before the river turned into rapids. She had then come ashore, sopping wet, freezing cold, and bone tired, and continued to run.

Panting like an animal, Ahsoka suddenly burst out of the thick jungle and into a small clearing. The sunlight shone through the layers of trees in a dappled effect, casting a ray of light onto a moss-covered log towards the side of the clearing.

Ahsoka knew it could be deadly to stop, but she was so tired that she couldn't resist the temptation to stop and rest. She sank onto the log, taking the opportunity for the first time in days to truly rest. She had barely slept over the past few days, and the total-body exhaustion took over as she flopped onto the soft moss, her chest heaving up and down as she sucked in oxygen.

The jungle around her continued its life, the sounds and calls of dozens of animals providing a soundtrack to her thoughts. This was the first time she had really had to stop and actually _think _about what had happened, and the obvious question was _why?_

Why had her men betrayed her? They had shown nothing but respect and courteousness to her until that day, had never gone against her orders. She knew that clones were bred to obey orders from superiors without question, but she would have never given such an order, and neither had Tahaak.

Which meant it must have come from an even higher authority. Ahsoka's blood chilled at that possibility. Had she done something wrong? Was there a traitor in the Republic that had ordered her exterminated. Ahsoka shivered, even as she lay in the sunlight. Tahaak's face kept haunting her thoughts, the pain and shock in his eyes a visceral reminder of what had happened.

As if she would ever forget. If she survived, Ahsoka knew this was one of those things she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

Ahsoka's brief rest was interrupted as a flock of four-winged sackow birds (named for the sound of their call) burst from the branches of a nearby moss-covered tree, squawking obnoxiously as they beat away.

Ahsoka frowned, confused as to what had caused the birds to spook. She slowly rolled off the log, taking her lightsaber in hand.

She smelled it first, her sense of smell keener than any humans. It didn't smell bad, just strong, more of a musk than an odor.

The sounds came next; the crackle of twigs being disturbed, the steady thud of large paws being pressed into the soft jungle loam at regular intervals, and the heavy breaths of something very big.

Ahsoka swallowed and stepped back to her edge of the clearing as the beast stepped into view on the other end. It was a tantaroc; a massive, squat, six-legged mammalian carnivore that was at the top of the food chain in the Tantim jungles, known for even attacking clone patrols. Ahsoka swallowed and involuntarily took another step back as the tantaroc raised its head, staring at her with black, beady eyes as it inhaled her scent deeply, trying to determine if she was a threat or not. As it did so, it opened its jaws, displaying rows of dagger-like teeth that Ahsoka instinctively knew she did _not _want anywhere near her. The beast's silver hide rippled over massive muscles as it pawed the ground, vicious-looking claws turning over a massive clod of loam.

Slowly, cautiously, Ahsoka reached out with the Force towards the creature, trying to impress on it that she did not intend to harm it. When she first touched the mind of the tantaroc, it recoiled at the strange feeling, snarling viciously and lowering its head as it tore up more ground with its paws.

Ahsoka swallowed and tried again. This time, instead of delving into the tantaroc's mind, she skirted around the edges. _Friend_, she thought, trying to impress the word into the tantaroc's mind. While the animal could not understand language, she hoped that it would understand the feeling she was trying to communicate.

It appeared to have worked, and Ahsoka held her breath as the massive creature gave one last snort and glare before turning around, preparing to vanish into the woods again.

Ahsoka let out the breath, but ended up shrieking in alarm as a cold, slimy, scaly snake-like creature slithered over her foot. Her eyes went wide and she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized her error, but by then it was too late. The tantaroc whirled back around, frightened by the sudden noise and operating on instincts to remove the source of its anxiety. Bellowing in rage, it snapped its jaws, saliva flying from the massive teeth as it charged across the clearing, the ground trembling with each time its paws hit the earth.

It only took a quick probe of the creature's mind for Ahsoka to ascertain that it was not going to be placated so easily. Sighing in regret, she activated her lightsaber, the emerald blade coming to life. She waited until the tantaroc was about to run her over and then leaped upwards, her own physical abilities combining with the Force to allow her to soar ten meters into the air, executing a flip halfway through and landing crouched and ready.

The tantaroc roared in primitive anger at its quarry's escape and turned about with surprising speed, charging her once again. Ahsoka waited until the beast was halfway across the clearing and then reached out with the Force, shoving powerfully at one of the tantaroc's knees. There was a sickening snap as the beast's right front leg shattered in at the knee. Bellowing in pain and unable to bear its weight, the tantaroc stumbled forwards, its wounded leg collapsing underneath it as it skidded across the wet jungle floor, tearing up a furrow of dirt. Angrily, the beast snapped at Ahsoka's leg, but the nimble Togrutan dodged out of the way, clambering up onto the beast's back and bringing her lightsaber down, piercing the brain and killing it instantly. The tantaroc gave one last shudder and fell limp, its jaw still open.

_What a pity_, Ahsoka thought as she closed down her lightsaber. _To have to kill such a magnificent creature. At any rate, I have tarried here too long. _She turned to leave, but as she did so, a glimmer of metal on the forest floor caught her eye, a manmade object standing out like a sore thumb among the dappled browns and greens of the forest. Curious, she walked over to it, kneeling in the loam and brushing away the thin layer of leaves that had covered it during the tantaroc's skid.

Ahsoka cursed, something she almost never did. Lying there, half-buried in the dirt, was a standard-issue Republic emergency transmitter. _Her emergency transmitter._

Muttering pleas under her breath, Ahsoka dug the device out to find her fears confirmed: the activation button had been depressed. It must have fallen off during her leap and, as fate would have it, had landed on the button.

_I should have tossed it in the river, _Ahsoka swore. Why had she even held on to the thing?

Ahsoka knew that she had little time, and stood up to leave.

But it was too late. There was more rustling in the brush, and white-armored forms began to emerge from the brush on all sides of her, blaster rifles raised as they investigated the source of the signal.

_It's not fair…_

Ahsoka had no more time to pout, however. If this was how she was going to go down, she would go down fighting. She activated her lightsaber, the emerald light bathing her snarling features in a terrifying glow.

The clones were not impressed, or so she guessed, as they opened up without so much as a "how do you do?" Ahsoka spun her blade, batting away the bolts and deflecting two into the chests of other clones. The Force warned her to a presence behind her and she flung her lightsaber, neatly decapitating the clone even as she rolled away. Calling on the Force, the blade returned to her hand, and Ahsoka leaped into the sky, landing behind another clone. She reached out, wrapping her hands around the man's neck and _twisting_. There was a serious of sickening pops as bones were moved in ways they weren't designed to, and the man fell to the ground even as more clones poured into the clearing.

Ahsoka rolled forward again, slicing a clone across the chest. He fell away, his blaster firing randomly as his finger clamped around the trigger in his death throes.

Ahsoka turned, saw a clone with sergeant's markings charging her. While deflecting bolts with her saber, she leaped, foot aiming for the clone's chest.

This clone, however, was more skilled that she had given him credit for. The sergeant dug in his heels and met the attack, reaching out, grasping her foot, and violently twisting. Ahsoka screamed in pain as her leg broke, falling heavily to the earth, her lightsaber deactivating. She attempted to rise to her knees, but was rewarded with a crushing blow to the back of her head. Stars exploded into her vision, which momentarily blacked out. When her eyes opened again, all they saw was black. That was when she realized she was lying on the ground.

The cold metal of a DC-15 carbine was then pressed to back of her head.

Was this how it ended, Ahsoka wondered. Was this how she would die? Face-down in the dirt of some meaningless planet, never knowing the reason behind her death?

The sudden roaring sound took everyone in the clearing by surprise, and Ahsoka looked up to see the clone behind her suddenly get speared through the chest by a lance of emerald light. The carbine barrel left the back of her head, and she raised her head to see what had happened.

The Low-Altitude Attack Transport/infantry, also known as the LAAT/i, or, more affectionately, the "larty", was the backbone of the Republic's ground support force. Powered by repulsorlift engines and able to carry an entire squad of troopers into battle, it was equipped with heavy repeating blasters and missile pods that made it an unholy terror against unprepared enemy forces. The clone troopers besieging Ahsoka must have realized this, because they immediately sought cover, exchanging fire with the dropship as it circled above.

Bad move. The LAAT/i had more firepower on one side of its body than the entire squad. Its heavy repeating lasers strafed the clone positions around her, and Ahsoka dove into the dirt again, placing her hands over her head and curling up in a ball as the massive, deafening explosions shook the earth around her.

Was this a rescue? It appeared so, for the LAAT/i swooped in for a landing. Ahsoka's hopes appeared to be dashed, however, as the dropship's doors slid open, allowing four more clones to hop to the ground.

That made no sense. Why would clones fight clones? These clones, however, wore red trim on their armor, a coloration Ahsoka had not seen before. Most clone legions were either blue, yellow, green, or purple.

Ahsoka became even more confused as the red-armored clones began to exchange fire with her attackers. Blaster fire streaked back and forth over her head, and Ahsoka decided it was best to play dead for a while.

However, a new shape suddenly appeared, leaping out of the dropship with a grace no clone could ever hope for. It was a man, dark-haired and dressed, a blue lightsaber in hand.

"Anakin!" Ahsoka cried in joy and disbelief. She attempted to rise, but her broken leg refused to support her weight and she crashed to the earth. She began to crawl towards him as blaster bolts hissed inches around her, setting jungle vegetation afire with the stench of ozone and burning wood. "Master!"

Anakin sprinted over to her, his blue lightsaber spinning in dizzying patterns as it deflected all weaponsfire directed at them. "Ahsoka!" he called as he came to her side, helping her up with his free hand. "So good to see you here."

Anakin turned back to the red-trimmed clones. "Keep suppressing them!" he ordered as he helped Ahsoka back to the dropship. Their leader nodded his acknowledgement and fired a quick burst, taking out a clone across the way. A stray bolt made it through Anakin's defense and hit Ahsoka in the shoulder. She cried out at the scalding pain and collapsed against Anakin, who escorted her the final few feet to the dropship while the friendly clones returned fire.

Anakin helped her into the ship. Ahsoka was fading fast, all the minor wounds and injuries of the past few days taking their toll. Anakin tore off the shoulder of her robe to look at the injury; it wasn't a fatal hit, not by a long shot, but it would hurt like hell until she got into a bacta tank. Coupled with the broken leg, the young Togruta had taken quite a beating.

"Fall back," Anakin called to the clones. "We're bugging out."

"Affirmative, sir," the sergeant leading them replied. One by one, the clones returned to the dropship, and the LAAT/i pilot engaged the repulsorlifts, punching out into the atmosphere.

"Good thing you activated your transponder," Anakin told Ahsoka as she rested her head on his lap. "We would never have found you."

Ahsoka smiled. "Guess some good came of it." She coughed, fighting through the pain to stay conscious. She feebly raised one hand, indicating the red-armored clones. "So, they haven't all turned?"

Anakin sighed. "No, not all of them. But far too few for my liking."

Ahsoka managed a weak nod before slipping into unconsciousness. Anakin secured her into one of the crash seats and took his own and tapped his comlink. "Patriarch, this is Hussar. We have the package and are extracting, over."

Patriarch-actually Sigma on board the _Resolute_-replied in kind. "Roger, Hussar. Good flying. Out."

Anakin sat down, feeling for Ahsoka's pulse to make sure it was there. After all the Jedi that had died in the past few days, it would be unbearable to lose any more.

Anakin closed his eyes and slept.


	4. Two Betrayals

Chapter IV

**A/N: Sorry this chapter's a little shorter than usual; I had originally planned as posting it and Chapter V together, but this week has been insane and I probably wouldn't get it out by the weekend if I did so. Also, to answer a few more questions, initially, I'm planning on only having the Elites feature, but other species will show up later. Some other Jedi will survive, otherwise there wouldn't be much of a resistance effort. That's all I'm willing to reveal for now. **

GNR _Liberation_

Cantam System

Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in the observation room of the GNR _Liberation_, the second Venator-class cruiser under Yularen's command that had survived the flight from Coruscant largely intact, and stared out at the moon before them. Cantam IX, they called it, the only habitable body in the system they were in. The Cantam system was one that was listed on the starcharts for little more than technicality; it possessed only a single planet, a massive unnamed gas-giant that contained no harvestable resources and rotated a rather unremarkable white dwarf star. Of its nine moons, only the last, the one the remnants of the Jedi fleet were currently circling, possessed enough of an atmosphere for life to exist. Not flourish, but exist.

_Which is all we need to do, _Obi-Wan thought bitterly. _Exist_.

Obi-Wan was sick and tired of war. He had been sick and tired of war since the Battle of Geonosis, and this recent betrayal had only strengthened such feelings. It was one of the reasons he had opposed Anakin taking the _Resolute _off on that misguided rescue mission of his; it was likely he would get involved in another skirmish.

There were several other Jedi, Mace foremost among them, who wanted to strike back at the newly-formed Empire, to form a resistance group. To them, Obi-Wan had but one thing to say: resist with what? A group of falling-apart ships you so grandiosely call a "fleet"? Resist with a force of Jedi that now numbered at barely over one hundred and fifty, all but three dozen of those younglings and Padawans? Resist with a force of two thousand clones whose loyalty Obi-Wan was still inclined to suspect? It would be a resistance that could be ignored as easily as a rat nipping at the heels of a rancor.

No, Obi-Wan would be content to stay here, to eke out a living on the small base they were constructing on this moon until some rebellion arose that might present them a better chance of resisting.

Obi-Wan heard the doors behind him slide open, another Jedi Master entering. He knew who it was without even turning his head. Mace.

Obi-Wan resisted groaning; the last person he wanted to talk to at this time was Mace.

Mace strolled casually up beside him, making a distinct point to look down at the skeletal framework of a base that was being constructed on the surface of the moon and not at Obi-Wan. For a while, neither man spoke, but the silence was not destined to last.

"What troubles you, Master Kenobi?" Mace asked finally, his voice heavy with concern. "The air about you is thick with despair."

To his surprise and Mace's, Obi-Wan actually laughed at that. Laughed very hard, actually. Obi-Wan laughed, needing something to release the tension inside him. Mace gave him a strange look, wondering if the Jedi had gone mad.

"Oh, that's rich," Obi-Wan said, when the tears had finally stopped rolling down his face. "Real rich, Mace." He said, biting sarcasm entering his voice. "We've just been betrayed by the government we've served our entire lives, we're in hiding in some system no one's ever heard of, and our best chance at survival is off cavorting about rescuing lost Padawans, and you ask me why I despair?"

Mace was silent, and Obi-Wan's mirth vanished as he realized he had lost control of his temper. "I'm sorry, Master Windu," he apologized. "I lost my head there for a moment."

Mace waved it off. "No, it's fine," he said, flashing one of those pearly-white smiles. "I suppose it was a bit of a rhetorical question."

Obi-Wan sighed and sat down in one of the plush chairs in the observation room. "Do you honestly think we'll last long here?"

"Pardon?" Mace said, taking a seat opposite Obi-Wan.

Obi-wan sighed. "What I mean is, where do we go from here? All around us is the Empire, and to our backs is the Wild Space. We've boxed ourselves into a corner here. Albeit a very dimly-lit and dusty corner, but a corner nonetheless. When we're finally found, we'll have nowhere to flee."

Mace nodded gravely. "I have considered all these things as well. The fact is, Master Kenobi, is that we cannot tarry here for long. With such a vicious betrayal, there have got to be more dissidents, more rebels and refugees like us, that we could join with. We could form an effective guerilla front, an alliance to restore the Republic-"

"Mace, Mace," Obi-Wan said, "we've been over all this before. The fact remains; our offensive capability consists of two old Venators, one of which is currently absent and three similarly-battered Acclamators. Our offensive capacity against the forces of the Empire is practically nil."

"Master Kenobi," Mace said coldly, "I do believe all this time in space had depressed your heart. With six ships we can still do tremendous damage if the right tactics are employed. I've never heard such defeatist words from you. Did you suddenly become a cynic?"

"I'm not a cynic," Obi-Wan protested, "I'm a realist. And the fact remains, until we amass more strength, we are helpless."

Mace didn't respond to that, and the silence stretched into minutes and hours. Finally, Obi-Wan glanced down at his chronometer. "That's odd," he said, sounding genuinely confused.

Mace looked up. "What?"

"Anakin was supposed to be back an hour ago," Obi-Wan said, his voice carrying an undertone of worry.

"You know as well as I do that FTL-arrival estimations are inconsistent, at best," Mace said, seeing Obi-Wan's line of thought. "An hour is not an indication of anything irregular."

"You're right," Obi-Wan said, leaning back. "But if there's one thing I learned from my years with that man, it's that if he's late, be afraid. Be very afraid."

000

GNR _Resolute_

FTL en route to Cantam System

_-the boot of the clone trooper was thrust roughly into her back, rolling her over with a detached callousness. Ahsoka stared down the barrel of the blaster rifle, her eyes widening in fear. She looked desperately about for the LAAT/i, but it was gone. She was all alone in the clearing with the clones. _

No,_ she thought desperately._ No, this isn't right. This is when Anakin comes! This is when he rescues me! _She whipped her head around with increasing fear, looking for her salvation and finding nothing but the accusing blank visors of the clones. _

_ Then the clone pinning her down pulled the trigger, and her world went black._

_ How long she floated in the darkness, unable to move or speak, Ahsoka had no idea. It could have been minutes, it could have been years. There was no concept of time in this strange realm, only an excruciating awareness of one's own helplessness to move. _Is this what death is?_ Ahsoka wondered as she floated through the blank void. _Floating for eternity, able to think but not to act? _Her limbs trembled in fear at the thought. That would be the worst type of hell imaginable, to be forced to exist endlessly, aware of your hopeless condition and unable to change it. Ahsoka tried to open her mouth to scream, but the stifling blackness merely pressed in even closer. It seemed thicker, now, like wool, closing around her, filling her mouth and strangling her slowly. Ahsoka's mind raced as she tried to figure out what was happening, but was left with no answer. _

_ If it was possible, the darkness got even darker._

_ And then, suddenly, the stifling darkness was gone. Ahsoka was standing in the middle of a flowered clearing, one she recognized all too well. Her command walker stood to one side, a group of dutiful clones standing guard. Ahsoka's eyes widened as she saw the holotable outside, the same one she had been using to map out her battle plans on the day of the betrayal._

_ Ahsoka saw the clones, but they did not appear to see her. She tried to walk, but her limbs did not move. Instead, her form seemed to ghost forward at her will. _

Am I a spirit? _ She thought, staring at her translucent arms and legs. That would be a significantly better fate than floating for eternity in the void. In an attempt to test the theory, Ahsoka floated closer to the group of clones. They ignored her as if she was not there, continuing to clean their weapons and talk in low undertones. _

Ahsoka_, boomed a loud voice, but the troopers seemed not to notice. The young Togruta spun around, her eyes going wide with shock as she saw Tahaak standing on the other side of the clearing, his form like hers, shimmering and elusive in the dappled jungle sun._

Tahaak!_ Ahsoka yelled with joy, floating over to the other Togruta and moving to embrace him. _Thank goodness you're alive!

No, _Tahaak said in a harsh voice Ahsoka had never heard him use before. The Togrutan had always been gentle, but this new Tahaak did not seem gentle, pushing Ahsoka back. _

No, _he said, _I am not alive. I am dead, just as you are.

What? _Ahsoka said, shocked. _I'm not dead. I can't be dead! Anakin rescued me.

Anakin rescued no one, _Tahaak bellowed, and Ahsoka cowered before the sudden rage. She cast a glance back at the troopers, but they seemed oblivious to the argument taking place._

You died, _Tahaak roared. _You turned back when I was telling you to run. You ignored my final request, and you died because of it.

No! _Ahsoka said desperately. _I lived! I remember it! And, and, I didn't ignore your request! I ran, I ran until Anakin found me and-

Foolish child! _Tahaak boomed, his spirit form seeming to grow ever larger, and Ahsoka continued to shrink. _You were not rescued! You are as dead as I am, doomed as I am, because you thought you were better than me!

What? _Ahsoka gasped, tears beginning to streak down her face. _No, no, _she pleaded, falling to her knees. _That's not what I wanted. I didn't think I was better. I loved you! I-

You what? _Tahaak bellowed, lifting Ahsoka up to look her in the eyes. _

_ Ahsoka blinked, stunned at what she had just admitted. She had been keeping that to herself for a long time now, but it had finally spilled out. _I mean, um, I respect-

Do not try to play me for a fool, child, _Tahaak rumbled, a dark humor in his voice. _I heard what you said just fine. _He turned away, floating to another corner of the clearing, chuckling to himself. _

Okay, fine, _Ahsoka steamed, hands on her hips. _I admit it, I loved you. Even though we were Jedi and I knew it was wrong, I loved you.

Why? _Tahaak said, his voice suddenly seeming small and timid. _

_ Ahsoka blinked. _Well, you were handsome, and clever, and always ready with a joke, and-

Oh, you loooved me, huh?_ Tahaak said, turning around to float back towards her, all traces of his momentary weakness gone. He shook his head in disgust. _What a silly thing, love. It addles the brain, causes you to do all sorts of weird things-

_ He abruptly stopped, as if reaching an epiphany, and cocked his head at Ahsoka. _Is that why you turned back? _He asked, actually sounding concerned. _Did you really love me?

_Ahsoka wasn't about to fall for the same trick twice. _Well, I may have at one point, _she said snippily, _but now you're just acting like a jerk.

_At that, Tahaak suddenly burst into laughter. _A jerk? _He repeated. _And what does that make you? I died so that you might live, and you had to go and get yourself killed.

I'm not dead!_ Ahsoka repeated, although her voice had considerably less confidence this time. Her heart began to beat faster as she wondered if she had imagined the entire rescue, if she really _was _dead. _No, _she whispered, more to herself than Tahaak. _No, it can't be. It can't be!

_Believe it or not, child, it's the truth, _Tahaak said ominously. _You are just as dead as I, and since you loved me, I suppose you won't object to spending more time with me in this clearing?_

_ Ahsoka snorted. _Whatever. I'll just leave and you can go find someone else to bother.

Oh, I'm afraid that's quite impossible, child, _Tahaak began, in the tone of a teacher lecturing a particularly slow student. _

Stop calling me child! _Ahsoka simpered. _I'm only half a year younger than you.

As you wish, dear_, Tahaak continued without skipping a beat_. But the fact remains, you cannot leave.

What?_ Ahsoka froze. _What do you mean?

I mean exactly what I say, _Tahaak replied cryptically. _You can never leave.

I don't believe you,_ Ahsoka challenged._

_ Tahaak shrugged. _Then go ahead. Try. See if I care.

_Slowly, Ahsoka edged towards the border of the clearing. Just as she was about to enter the jungle, however, she abruptly fell backwards, as if she had run into some unseen, unknown force._

No, _Ahsoka said, the seed of panic beginning to sprout in her stomach. _No! No! That's impossible! _She began to hurl herself at the invisible wall with no results, her fingers sliding frictionless over some invisible surface. _No! _she cried in desperation. _Please, no! _She began to beat, and to kick, and to punch, all of it doing about as much good as hurling pebbles at a rancor. Her non-corporeal body felt no pain, so she continued to hurl herself against it to no avail. She attempted to reach out with the Force to descry the nature of what was restricting her, but to her shock and terror, the Force was gone. Not only was it gone, it was as if it had never existed. She sought for it desperately, but nothing came, no energy field came to her aid._

You may as well stop trying, _Tahaak's voice came, taunting her. _I've tried I don't know how many times already.

No, _Ahsoka replied bitterly. _I'll find a way out of here, if only to avoid you. _Tahaak snorted, unimpressed. _Good luck, then, _he said, sitting down on a moss-covered log to enjoy the show._

_ Simmering with anger, Ahsoka forced herself to ignore Taha-no, that wasn't Tahaak. The real Tahaak would have never acted like this. This must be some bitter version of him._

_ Regardless, the fact remained that she seemed unable to escape. Ahsoka ran at the wall, preparing to leap over the wall-_

_ -and the instant she put weight on her right leg, it suddenly exploded in sensation. Pain, pain she had not felt since the beginning of this nightmare, coursed through her body, overwhelming every nerve in a storm of fire. Ahsoka screamed, falling to the ground, defeated, as Tahaak's booming laughter taunted her in the background…_

"Hold her down, hold her down!" someone was yelling, and Ahsoka felt hands grabbing her, moving her, strapping her to some object. Still floating half-in, half-out of dream world, she reacted with fright, thrashing about in an attempt to escape-

"Ahsoka!" yelled a voice. Not the booming roar of dream-Tahaak that she had become accustomed to; no, this voice was different, more comforting. "Ahsoka, be still!" it commanded.

Ahsoka slowly ceased moving. Her eyes snapped open, and above her was a white ceiling, several faces, human and robotic, standing over her. One of them looked flustered as if he had just finished yelling. "Anakin?" she said hopefully.

Anakin smiled in relief. "Yeah, Snips, it's me," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "Do calm down and let the medics do their work, will you?"

"Uh, sure," Ahsoka said, as blessed relief that the whole thing had just been a dream washed through her. As the medical personnel began the process of rolling her bed into a row of others and hooking up the machines that monitored her vital functions, she reached out to access the Force. It was there, present as it had always been through her whole life, an calmly ebbing pool of energy.

Ahsoka went limp with relief.

After a few more minutes, the medical personnel left her in the bed with a warning not to break anything else and her broken leg secured to the bed. She propped herself up on her elbows, seeing Anakin standing beside her, and Padmé Amidala beside him.

_Padmé? What was she doing here?_

"Glad you're alright, Snips," Anakin said. "You gave us quite the scare for a moment."

"Us?" Ahsoka queried.

"Yes, us," Anakin replied, a quizzical smile on his face.

"Where am I?" Ahsoka asked, her eyes roaming over the large room. It appeared to be some sort of medical bay-

"Currently, you are in the medical bay of the GNR _Resolute_," Anakin said.

Ahsoka sighed again with relief. Her rescue had been real.

Next came the questions. "Wha-what happened?" she asked.

Anakin snorted. "That's what we've been wanting to ask you. We put you in a bacta tank to heal your leg, but the instant you were immersed, you started thrashing about like a fish out of water."

A bacta tank. Ahsoka looked down and saw her skin was still wet, and she was wearing a hospital bacta gown. That would explain the dark void; floating in bacta was a very unnerving experience.

"Then," Anakin continued, "when we tried to take you out, you tried to run and your broken leg collapsed."

Ahsoka nodded, those details from her dream coming back to her. Her look soured, however, as a new thought occurred to her. "But…why did the clones attack?"

Anakin sighed deeply, as if he had been dreading that question. "Ahsoka, everything has changed."

For the next ten minutes, Ahsoka listened with growing disbelief and horror as Anakin waxed eloquent about chancellors becoming Sith Lords, about betrayal and evacuating the Jedi Temple. "It can't be!" she said. "That's impossible."

Anakin gave a mirthless snort. "Those words are a dime a dozen these days."

Ahsoka slumped back in the hospital bed, her mouth attempting to form words, but none coming out. "I…I…"

She shook her head. "I…I just need some time."

"I understand," Anakin said with a smile, caressing her hand. "Call us if you need us."

"I will," Ahsoka assured, and Anakin and Padmé left the medical bay.

"Well, that was fun," Anakin said as soon as they were outside in the halls.

Padmé smiled. "She'll be fine. Young people always bounce back from things like this faster."

Anakin shook his head. "I don't know. Judging from the viciousness of that dream, she's seen some pretty disturbing sights."

"So have you," Padmé said, turning to embrace him. "And you've turned out perfectly normal."

Anakin smiled and nuzzled his nose against her cheek, relishing the smell of her hair. "Define normal," he whispered into her ear, and Padmé chuckled in response.

There was nothing more that Anakin would have liked to have done than to stay there forever, wrapped in her arms, but several passing crewmembers were beginning to look over in interest, and the two pulled away, mentally bemoaning the nature of their secret and forbidden love.

They had just stepped apart when a new sound occurred. Or rather, the lack of a sound. The steady thrum of a ship in hyperspace seemed to fade in and out before dropping out completely.

"Odd," Anakin said, furrowing his brow.

"What?" Padmé asked in concern.

"That felt like we just dropped out of hyperspace."

Padmé smiled. "Well, at least we got back safely."

Anakin wasn't quite as optimistic. "We weren't supposed to drop out for another two hours."

There was a silence between the two as they pondered the implications of what had just happened, and then Anakin abruptly turned and began to run through the corridors. "Anakin!" Padmé called. "Wait! Where are you going?"

"To the bridge!" Anakin called over his shoulder. "Gonna find out what just happened." With that, he vanished around a corner, leaving behind him a very frustrated and confused Senator.

"Oh, I hate it when he does that," Padmé muttered to herself.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. I worked really hard to get Ahsoka's whole dream sequence hammered out so that it made sense, so I'd really like some feedback on that. C'ya hopefully 'round Wednesday. **


	5. No Rest for the Weary

Chapter V

**A/N: SURPRISE! Early update!  
>Don't get too used to it. These next few weeks are going to be very, very busy. Don't get mad if I am unable to update. Also, to anyone impatient out there, crossing over will happen soon. Not this chapter, but soon. Bear with me. All will go according to my plan….<strong>

GNR _Resolute_

En route Cantam System

Admiral Wulf Yularen sat in the command chair of the GNR _Resolute, _sipping a cup of caf and feeling quite pleased with himself. The _Resolute _had been able to escape the Amarius System with very little engagement with Imperial forces in-system, and was currently safe in hyperspace, traveling towards the Cantam System where it could rejoin the rest of its task force.

Yularen smiled. For the first time in his life, he felt truly free. It was an irony, that it took an Empire replacing a Republic for him to do so, but he couldn't deny that the feeling of being a renegade was dangerous, but also thrilling.

He snorted in amusement. "I'm too old for this," he muttered to himself, taking another sip of the caf. Leading resistance groups was a job for the young and strong-hearted.

A quick glance at his chronometer revealed that there was approximately two hours left in their journey. He rose, delegating control of the ship to Epsilon in his absence, and was about to leave when something changed.

The subtle thrum of a ship in hyperspace began to fluctuate, sending strange vibrations through the hull. Worried, Yularen took a look back to the center of the bridge, and his eyes grew wider as the swirling blue-white vortex outside began to break up, strange patterns flashing, intermixed with the black of space.

"Navigation!" he barked. "What the heck is happening?"

"No idea, sir," Epsilon responded, sounding genuinely befuddled as his white-armored head swiveled back and forth, checking the readouts on his consoles. "The hyperdrive is reading some sort of gravitational anomaly. We're dropping out-"

Suddenly, the hyperdrive abruptly cut out. The stars snapped back into perspective, twinkling in the blackness.

Yularen leaned back against the chair, breathing heavily as he tried to process what had happened. "What?" he said.

"The hyperdrive just stopped, sir," Epsilon said. "Some sort of gravitational anomaly, like I said."

"Gravitational anomaly?" Yularen repeated. That was impossible. The _Resolute'_s path back to Cantam had been meticulously charted in order to avoid any suns or planets whose gravitational pull could jerk them out of FTL, and Yularen always kept the Venator's starcharts up-to-date. Besides, here, in the vast gulf between star systems, there were no possible planetary bodies that could affect their travel.

That left mechanical issues. Yularen groaned. A broken hyperdrive was not what they needed, as that would take a great amount of time to fix.

"Try powering it up again," Yularen said, just as the bridge doors split open to reveal Anakin Skywalker.

"Hyperdrive troubles?" he asked.

Yularen nodded briskly. "We're working on it. Go send an announcement from the COM center."

Anakin gave a small bow and left, the doors sliding shut behind. "Now," Yularen said, "about that hyperdrive."

"All systems are reading functional, sir," Epsilon said, "it just won't power up, keeps saying there's too much gravitational pull."

"Sir!" Fermion said, interrupting Yularen's scathing remark before it began. "He's right; sensors are reading a massive gravitational anomaly within .00003 light-years."

Yularen frowned. What could be that close?

His question was answered for him as Fermion looked down again. "Uh, sir, we've got incoming contacts."

Yularen's blood chilled. "How many?"

"Three, sir. All bogies. None of them match any known ship profiles we have logged in our database."

Yularen swallowed. Out here, on the edge of Wild Space, there was no telling what ships could be prowling about. "Get me a visual."

Epsilon fired the _Resolute_'s sublight engines, bringing the battlecruiser around to survey its new friends as they appeared on the tac screen, designated as Bogeys 1, 2, and 3.

There were, as Sigma said, three of them, all closing in at top sublight speed. One of them was small, barely six hundred meters long, with an angular shape that was interrupted by four huge, bulbous domes halfway up its length. It seemed rather weak, judging by the fact that it cowered behind its fellows.

Of course, the remaining two ships looked like ones any wise commander would want to be cowering behind.

Stretching 1,600 meters from stem to stern, these new ships bore a faint resemblance to the _Resolute_. Gone was the crook near the Venator's stern, however, replaced by clean, smooth, angular lines that gave it a shape like a gigantic arrowhead. Near the stern and the huge ion engines, the hull climbed in a zigguarat-like pattern, culminating in a large crosspiece tipped with two massive domes. Bristling with turbolasers and laser cannons, the entire shape of the ship seemed to have been designed to induce sheer psychological terror in their enemies.

Yularen frowned. He had seen the plans for those ships before, in intel briefings prior to the assault on Coruscant. The larger ones were undoubtedly _Imperial_-class Star Destroyers, the new class of capital ship designed to become the new backbone of the Republic fleet.

Of course, now, they belonged to the Imperial fleet.

As for the smaller ship, it's shape was quite unmistakable. The four bulbous domes marked it as a Class-I Interdictor cruiser. Yularen remembered from the briefings he had been given that when the domes were powered up, they emitted massive gravitational fields, strong enough to pull ships out of hyperspace or prevent them from entering. They were going to be deployed around worlds to stop the hit-and-run raids of the CIS, but it appeared that they had now found their use in hunting down fleeing renegades.

They couldn't run. And with the presence of those two Star Destroyers, Yularen wasn't entirely sure he wanted to risk a fight.

"Sir," Sigma said. "We have an incoming transmission from one of the enemy ships, Bogey 2."

Yularen raised an eyebrow. If they were willing to talk, he was more than willing to oblige them.

"Patch them through," he said, straightening his uniform collar and walking over to the holotable.

The holoprojector warmed up, spitting up a wavering image of a man with thin eyebrows and a very prominent nose, dressed in a crisp black uniform with the new Imperial insignia on his cap.

"Greetings-" Yularen began, but the man cut him off. "I am Captain Kendal Ozzel of the Imperial Navy, in command of the _Imperial-_class Star Destroyer _Imperium_," he said, in a fittingly imperious tone. "Are you Admiral Wulf Yularen, confirmed deserter and traitor of the Empire and shelterer of Jedi?"

Yularen was tempted to say no, just to see what kind of a response he would get, but Ozzel seemed like the short-fuse type to him. _They already know it's true, anyways._ "I've been called that," he said evasively.

Ozzel snarled. "You are to order your men to stand down while we board your vessel and return it to Imperial space. If you comply, you and your crew will not be harmed and be returned to Coruscant to be court-martialed for treason and desertion, and any Jedi scum onboard will be turned over to Imperial authorities. If you do not comply, you will be killed."

Yularen smiled faintly. "Not much of a choice, is it, old chap?"

Ozzel wasn't amused. "Do you accept?"

Yularen crossed his arms. "What do you plan to do with the Jedi?"

"That is not your place to ask." Ozzel snapped.

Yularen snorted. "Yet I ask anyways. What is your plan for them?"

Ozzel seemed to hold a brief discussion with someone off-screen before turning back, his face contorted in a snarl. "Your asking of that question is indicative of your inevitable response. Die, rebel scum."

The hologram vanished.

_Polite bastard, _Yularen thought wryly in the general direction of the _Imperium_

"Sir!" Sigma declared quite unnecessarily. "Enemy ships are powering up their weapons."

"Status on the hyperdrive?" Yularen asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"We can't power it up, sir. The Interdictor has been confirmed as the source of the gravitational interference."

Yularen nodded. The only way they were getting out of here alive was if they took out the Interdictor.

The only problem was being outnumbered three to one.

"All hands to battle stations," Yularen said, walking over to the center of the bridge as the combat alert alarm began to blare. All throughout the ship, blast doors rumbled along their assigned tracks, sealing off sections of the ship.

"Shields to full strength," Hal reported as the Imperial ships began to close in. Green turbolasers the size of buildings began to streak from their hulls, bearing down on the single Venator.

"Fire at will," Yularen said, and Terron responded, sending a hail of blue fire streaking across vacuum to impact against the shields of one of the Star Destroyers.

At the same time, the Imperial lasers hit, smashing into the _Resolute_'s shields. The battlecruiser trembled, but continued on its heading.

Yularen frowned. What exactly was their heading? Were they just going to charge blindly forward towards the enemy fleet, hoping that somehow they'd come out the other side in one piece?

No, that wouldn't do. Yularen frowned as green and blue bolts streaked back and forth between the two forces, pondering the situation. They couldn't win a straight-up fight; it just simply wouldn't happen.

What was it he had told the cadets in Fleet School? If you're out of options, then you're not thinking enough. There is always a way to change a situation, to flip the odds, to do something unexpected and turn the tables.

And just like that, it occurred to him. It was dangerous, yes. Suicidal? Possibly. But, he realized, his life had basically been forfeit the moment he had deserted Coruscant.

"Helm," he said with conviction. "Flank speed, set course for track oh-eight-six."

"Helm is answering flank speed," Epsilon said, then hesitated. "Sir? That's a co-"

Yularen waved a hand as the shields trembled. "Yes, I'm well aware that that is a collision course. Carry on."

"Sir," Hal responded curtly.

Yularen gazed at the tac-screen, estimating the distance between the _Resolute _and the starboard-side Star Destroyer in the formation. "We won't get there in time," he murmured, watching the distance to the target tick down at an agonizingly slow speed, even as the _Resolute_'s shields dropped to seventy-six percent under a barrage of enemy fire.

"Helm," he said. "Push the reactors to one hundred ten."

This time, Epsilon didn't hesitate. Perhaps he had caught on to the admiral's plan. "Yes, sir. Reactors to one hundred ten percent."

"Sir," Hal said. "Reactors are running hot. We are now running outside recommended operational parameters."

"ETA to Bogey Two?" Yularen asked, referring to the second Star Destroyer that the Interdictor cruiser was cowering behind.

"At current speed, about five minutes, sir," Epsilon said.

Yularen bit his lip. "Too slow. Reactors to one-hundred-thirty-five."

"Sir?"

"Do it," Yularen said. The _Resolute _accelerated even more through the void. In a vacuum like space where there was no force to hold them back, each percent of acceleration actually capitalized on the one before it exponentially, so at 135%, the Venator was streaking towards the enemy ships nearly half a million kilometers away. Terron fired again, sending blue bolts streaking into the shields of one of the destroyers, but the massive ship's shields held.

That wasn't helping them. They would not be able to shoot their way out of this one. "Weapons," he said. "Cease fire. Transfer all power to shields."

"Sir." Terron nodded, a hint of regret in his voice, but he complied. The newly-reinforced shields flashed as they repelled the tremendous energy.

An alarm suddenly sounded at the operations station. "Sir," Hal said. "Reactor is approaching critical levels. Coolant systems are overloading; critical meltdown in three minutes."

"Vent primary coolant tanks," Yularen responded unhesitatingly, seeing just how long he could play this. "Pump in the reserves and rotate them out every thirty seconds. That should buy us an extra five."

"Done, sir," Hal said. "Reactor temperature cooling, stabilizing." Then, "Sir, shields down to seventy-two percent."

"She'll hold together," Yularen said confidently to the crew. _Come on, baby, hold together._

000

ISD _Imperium_

_What are those imbeciles doing?_ Was all Captain Kendal Ozzel could think as the battered Venator-class cruiser suddenly accelerated forward at tremendous speeds, bearing down on the _Reprisal_, the other Star Destroyer in his task force. They must have been trying to get to the Interdictor cruiser, but in doing so they would have to drive straight down the throat of two _Imperial_-class Star Destroyers, tantamount to suicide.

_That's what happens when you associate with Jedi, _Ozzel thought bitterly. He had known Yularen once, knew the man to be a competent commander, rock-solid under pressure and dependable to make the right decisions in a pinch. Now, however, it appeared the old man had finally gone off his repulsor-rocker chair.

"Sir," cried a voice from the pit below the platform Ozzel was currently standing on. "The commander of the _Reprisal _is requesting permission to break formation. He says that the Venator's course poses an imminent danger to him and his crew."

Ozzel snorted in derision. "The commander of the _Reprisal _is a coward and an idiot. Tell him he is to maintain his position; we shall not be frightened into fleeing before an inferior enemy."

He turned back to the weapons crew. "All forward batteries, open fire."

000

GNR _Resolute_

"Shields down to sixty-two percent!"

"Approaching red line of reactor! Meltdown in four minutes!"

The bridge of the _Resolute _was a din of combat information and shouted statistics, all of which seemed to point to the fact that it was becoming increasingly unlikely that the Venator would survive this conflict in more than one recognizable piece. Green fire was washing over the _Resolute _with increasing and frightening regularity, and the battlecruiser's shields were now perpetually flaring as they valiantly tried to deflect the energy.

The only piece of good news was that Bogey 2 appeared to be holding its position, undaunted by the Venator-class Star Destroyer bearing down on it. Either they were extremely overconfident or extremely brave, and Yularen had no problem repaying their mistake.

"ETA to target three minutes!"

"Shields down to fifty-five percent."

Yularen gripped the rail along the bridge until his knuckles turned white, watching as the Imperial ships loomed closer in the foreground. The massive Star Destroyer dominated the viewscreen, its broad, arrowhead-like shape spitting dozens of energy bolts at the onrushing Venator. Behind it, like a womp rat cowering behind a rancor, was the Interdictor, the thing that was keeping the _Resolute _from leaving the system.

"Shields to fifty even!" Hal declared as a furious barrage of laserfire slammed into the cruiser. "Recommend evasive action!"

"Stay on course," Yularen said, keeping his voice from trembling only through years of practice.

The next few minutes seemed to fly by. Yularen was so utterly, completely focused on what was happening that he could have been hit with a blaster bolt and would hardly have noticed. The _Resolute _sped towards the Imperial formation like a gundark on the run from hunters.

"Two minutes to impact!" Epsilon called, the Star Destroyer looming ahead larger.

"Shields at fifteen percent!" Hal responded, not to be outdone. "Reactor meltdown imminent! Ninety seconds!"

_Not much time to spare, _Yularen managed to think wryly, licking his dry mouth. "Hold course," he said quietly.

"Sir?"

"Hold course!" he bellowed. "Bring the reactors offline!" At this range, they didn't need any more speed; their inertia would take them at the same speed they were traveling at now up to their terminus point, and any further acceleration would only hamper their chances for survival, which were slim enough as it was.

"Reactors are offline!" Hall responded. "Shields to eight percent!"

"One minute to impact!"

"All hands, brace for impact!" Yularen called, buckling himself into the command chair as even more klaxons blared throughout the ship. He was in his element, now, a naval commander with nothing left to lose and everything to gain. "Load proton torpedo tubes. Transfer control of the emergency thrusters to my station."

"Yes, sir!"

Finally, the Imperial Star Destroyer seemed to realize that whatever orders it had received to stand firm were in error, considering the Venator bearing down on it. Its engines fired in an attempt to evade, but it was too late, too late to get out of the way. Its turbolasers fired one last desperate volley, raking the _Resolute _from stem to stern with their fury.

"Thirty seconds!"

"Shields are down!" Hal called. "Hull breaches in sections DA4 and DB2!"

"Vent atmosphere and seal blast doors in those sections!" Yularen ordered. It was a cruel measure for those unfortunate men in those sections of the ship, but necessary to keep fires and damage from spreading. "Atmosphere vented successfully," Hal reported. "Blast doors closing. Fires dying out, hull temperature cooling, stabilizing."

More and more turbolaser bolts slammed into the unshielded hull, melting through armor and causing atmosphere to vent from dozens of compartments, but the damage had already been done to the Imperial fleet.

"Fifteen seconds to impact!"

"Course correction!" Yularen screamed. "Come about point oh-niner-zero, declination plus point zero-six!"

"Helm is answering course correction, declination plus point-zero-six!"

"All weapons, fire, fire, fire!" Yularen demanded.

"All batteries are firing," Terron said.

Four proton torpedoes slammed into the Star Destroyer's shields as collision alarms sounded throughout the _Resolute_. The Star Destroyer's shields flashed as they tried to repel the massive explosions and failed as the Venator's turbolasers added to the assault.

The _Resolute'_s engines flared as they desperately tried to change course. Swinging about, it swung over the top of the Star Destroyer, it's portside hull making contact with the Star Destroyer's bow.

The sickening sound of shredding metal sounded as the two ships hit, and the _Resolute_'s hull groaned like a dying animal as a massive gash was ripped in the Venator's armor, stretching six-hundred meters along the port side. Yularen was thrown forward in his command chair, and the bridge lights flickered and went out before the emergency power came on, bathing the bridge in a red light.

The Star Destroyer came away no better. Its bow was crumpled and burning, utterly twisted and destroyed by the incredible force behind the impact of the charging Venator. It floated away, lifeless and burning.

As Hal began to read off systems that were offline, Yularen cut him off. "All remaining weapons, target Bogey 1," he said, referring to the Interdictor that cowered before them, now without its bodyguard. It fired in response, turbolasers burning even more holes in the hull.

It was, however, not a frontline ship, and even in its wounded state, the _Resolute _out-gunned it by a mile. Terron opened up with the gleeful joy of a child being told they were finally allowed out to play, the blue turbolasers battering down the smaller craft's shields and tearing it to pieces in a brilliant explosion.

"Seal all venting compartments!" Yularen called. "And spin up the hyperdrive for a blind jump."

"Sir?" Epsilon said. "Into the Wild Space?"

"No," Yularen said, exasperated, "we're going to the damn picnic! Of course, Wild Space! It's all we have left!"

000

ISD _Imperium_

Captain Kendal Ozzel stood tense like a piece of steel string, his back ramrod-straight and his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he watched the _Resolute _make its final run. It ran true to its name, undeterred even when its shields failed and it made a grisly impact with the _Reprisal _that tore a massive gash in its side, following through to destroy the Interdictor cruiser and opening up its possibility to escape into Wild Space.

It then struck Ozzel that he had failed. For the first time in his career as a captain, he had failed. The Emperor would not look kindly upon that failure.

"Sir!" yelled an ensign. "The enemy ship is maneuvering for a blind jump into Wild Space."

Wild Space was exactly that; the unexplored, remote section of the galaxy that very few dared to venture into. A blind jump into that place was tantamount to suicide.

But then, so had been driving straight down the throats of two Star Destroyers.

It was then that Ozzel realized that he had a chance to redeem his failure. If he could track that ship, he could determine where they were headed, and perhaps where the rest of its task force was. He could save his career, and possibly his life.

The decision made, he whirled around. "Launch a homing beacon," he said. "Tag that ship before it jumps."

"Sir!" replied the PWO, or principle weapons officer, snapping a crisp salute and tapping a few controls. "Beacon fired. Successful deployment."

A few seconds later, the _Resolute _vanished into hyperspace.

Ozzel stood there for a few moments, staring at the empty space-a rather ironic phrase, since all space was by definition empty-where the Venator had been only moments before.

"Sir?" asked a naval lieutenant in the pit below. "Orders?"

Ozzel blew out a long breath. "Contact the Emperor," he said. "I shall inform him of our…mixed results…personally."

000

GNR _Resolute_

Yularen sighed with relief as the stars stretched into lines and the familiar blue-white vortex of hyperspace began to form before him. A blind jump was generally considered more dangerous than anything else, as it posed the possibility of running into a star or black hole. Out here in Wild Space, those chances, if anything, were greater.

But, Yularen figured if he had just survived that insane run, he could press his luck a little while longer and remain in Wild Space. Perhaps they could drop out in a day or so, find a secluded spot to make repairs, and then return to Cantam.

But on the _Resolute's_ hull, indistinguishable from the numerous bumps, discolorations, and scars on the armor, a small, black device opened up with flower-like petals securing it to the hull and a red light beeping in the middle as it broadcast the _Resolute_'s location to the galaxy.

000

Coruscant

Imperial Residency

On the far corner of the Galactic Senate rotunda, a massive tower rose, ascending towards the skyline in a seemingly endless line of steel that sharpened to a needle-like point at the tip. Nearly two kilometers high, the entire structure was protected by capital-ship strength deflector shields, and its airspace was constantly patrolled by flights of ARC-170s. An entire legion of clones was dedicated to its defense, under the command of the Imperial Royal Guard.

Suffice to say, the Imperial Tower was the most secure structure in the known galaxy. And while the Imperial Palace was being built, it was also the temporary residence of the Emperor Palpatine, former Chancellor and no-longer-so-secret Dark Lord of the Sith Darth Sidious.

On the one-hundred and seventy-sixth floor of the Imperial Tower, locked away in his inner sanctum behind layers and layers of blast doors and steel, kept secure by dozens of members of the Royal Guard, Sidious brooded. He had been doing a lot of that lately, what with recent developments.

Sidious swiveled in his chair, turning his gaze to the teeming sky-traffic patterns of Coruscant. He smiled slightly at the thought of the trillions of beings now under his control, many of whom had no idea how much had changed.

When historians wrote about the rise of the Empire, what they would mainly remember was how quiet it was. Sidious had many friends and allies in the Senate, and his coup had been, other than that small matter of the Jedi purge, rather bloodless. The CIS, Sidious' front group for inciting the war with the Jedi, were helpless without his leadership, and their armies were quickly crushed by the now-Imperial forces. Imperial troops and fleets were cleaning up their remnants even now. For many citizens, daily life had not changed significantly at all.

All in all, Sidious supposed that he had very little reason to be annoyed. The few Jedi that had escaped his wrath, along with the deserters from the fleet, should be a minor-enough issue, and were being hunted down by the Fleet as he spoke. But still, it irked him that his meticulously-laid plans, so carefully set over centuries, had been thrown askew by the brash ignorance of a young man named Anakin Skywalker.

Sidious seethed. Anakin should have been his greatest triumph, his crown jewel. With that brash, powerful-and deeply flawed-young man as his apprentice, the Jedi would have been finished. But he had underestimated the degree to which the Jedi had brainwashed the young man, and that was a failure he took personally.

Sidious did not like failure.

It was ironic, then, in hindsight, that at the moment Sidious was internally stewing over his own supposed failure, he would be confronted with the news of another.

A sudden incessant beeping from the control console on the armrest of his chair alerted him to the fact that he was being contacted by a member of the Fleet, on a Priority One channel. Sighing in annoyance, Sidious squelched the alarm. "Yes?" he said, managing to sound bored and yet still dangerous at the same time.

A hologram sputtered to life from the chair's projector, displaying the image of a black-uniformed fleet officer; a captain to be exact.

Sidious scrutinized the man closely. It was Ozzel, he realized. A competent-enough commander, but just another faceless pawn among the officer corps of the vast Imperial fleet.

"My liege," Ozzel began, executing a bow with much more flourish than demanded.

"Yes, yes," Sidious snapped irritably. "What is it? Get to the point, already."

"Oh," Ozzel said, snapping back upright. "Um, of course, sir." He cleared his throat and straightened back up, smoothing away an imaginary wrinkle on his uniform before continuing. "Now, my task force was ordered to patrol the space around the Amarius System with our Interdictor cruiser pulling suspected rebel ships out of hyperspace."

Sidious waved a hand tiredly. "I am well aware of your mission statement, admiral," he said in a bored tone of voice that could easily be construed as quasi-threatening, "seeing as I was the one who ordered it. Now, what is your reason in contacting me? Did you get any results, or do you merely feel the need to interrupt my meditation at the most inconvenient moment possible?" He added a bit of emphasis to the last question, just to make the veiled threat even more frightening.

It appeared to work, as Ozzel's face blanched white and his eyes widened as he sensed which way this conversation was going. Sidious hid his grin; it was so enjoyable making these little creatures squirm.

"No, of course not, my liege," Ozzel stammered. "However, I can report with great satisfaction that we found the rebel forces you sent us out after."

Sidious drew in a sharp intake of breath. "You found them?" he hissed.

Ozzel hesitated. "Well, um, yes and no…" he began.

Sidious felt his hopes fade. "Continue," he sighed in annoyance.

"Well, we managed to pull the _Resolute _out of hyperspace, but no other ships," Ozzel said with a too-bright smile.

Sidious leaned back in his chair, pondering that. It actually wasn't that bad of a catch. As far as he recalled, the _Resolute _had been Yularen's flagship, which meant it was likely that Anakin or several other high-ranking Jedi were onboard.

"Perhaps you're not the total incompetent I thought you were," he said. "Continue."

Ozzel's smile faded, and he glanced around nervously before appearing to muster his courage and speak again. "But, they, um…they…"

Sidious felt his hopes being crushed again. He groaned. "What did they do?"

"They jumped into Wild Space. My liege."

Sidious blinked, and then leaned back in his chair, stunned by the sheer incongruity of it all. A ship jumping into Wild Space was almost unheard of; usually because they were never _heard from _again. His greatest prize had just vanished.

Sidious frowned as something struck him. "Wait," he said, "weren't you assigned an Interdictor both to pull them out of hyperspace _and _to prevent them from escaping?"

Ozzel swallowed, as if he had been dreading this question. "Yes, my liege."

Sidious waited for a moment, expecting the captain to continue, but the man was obviously scared witless. Sidious sighed; fear had its uses, but sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth. "Well, then," he said impatiently, "_how did they escape?_" he bit out the last few words through gritted teeth.

Ozzel closed his eyes tightly shut before answering. "They destroyed the Interdictor and made a blind jump. My liege."

Sidious slumped back in his chair, stunned nearly speechless. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but the immensity of Ozzel's failure had stunned him so much that he merely ended up gaping like a ordo-fish out of the slime swamp. It was a rare occasion to see a Dark Lord of the Sith speechless, but here it was.

Ozzel, seeing his own doom beginning to form in Sidious' enraged glare, hastily tried to cover up. "You see, my liege, they-"

Sidious held up a hand, and Ozzel wisely fell silent. "And how, exactly," Sidious said, almost whispering, his voice trembling with ill-controlled fury, "did a single, battered, Venator-class Star Destroyer make it in one piece past a pair of _Imperial_-class Star Destroyers to destroy an Interdictor cruiser?"

Ozzel opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it for a few more seconds. "They cheated," he finally whimpered.

Sidious snorted in morbid amusement. "My dear captain Ozzel," he said, in the tone of a teacher lecturing a small child, "how exactly did they…_cheat_…as you so grandiosely put it?"

Ozzel pursed his lips together before answering. "They made a suicide run," he said. "Rammed into my second Star Destroyer so we couldn't fire without hitting a friendly, and then destroyed the Interdictor before jumping away. The _Reprisal _sustained heavy damage to its bow, and is currently en route to Kuat for repairs."

Sidious was surprised. Yularen obviously had more guts than he had given him credit for. Ramming an _Imperial-_class Star Destroyer and making it away in more or less one piece was a feat that was quite impressive in its own right.

Unfortunately, it also meant that the _Resolute _had slipped through his grasp _again. _Sidious felt the anger begin to rush back, and he welcomed it. He had made use of such anger throughout his entire life, used it to advance his control of the Force, and it, in return, had made him more powerful than any of the puny Jedi that dared to oppose him. It rushed through his veins, a fiery liquor that fed his rage.

"If it is of any comfort, my liege," Ozzel began, but Sidious cut him off.

"The only thing that would currently be of any comfort to me, _captain_," Sidious hissed, stressing the last word, "is your imminent demise in punishment for your failure."

"But, my liege," Ozzel began, his face white with terror, but Sidious continued to rail, "To lose a battle against an old ship you outnumbered and outgun by a margin of three-to-one, damaging or destroying two of your own in the process? That is bumbling on the highest scale. When I first met you, I thought you a pawn. A well-intentioned pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. Now, however, I see that you are not just a pawn, but an idiot and an incompetent as well," he seethed. "And I do not reward idiocy or incompetency in my Empire."

"May I finish my report, my liege?" Ozzel said, with unexpected steel in his voice that cut off the Emperor's tirade. Sidious blinked, surprised at the sudden force and conviction behind the captain's question. Perhaps he had underestimated the man.

"Fine," he said cautiously, worrying at what else might be revealed. "Go ahead."

"Thank you, my liege," Ozzel said. "Anyways, as I was saying, the encounter was not a total loss. Before the _Resolute _managed to escape into Wild Space, we were able to plant a tracking beacon on its hull. We are currently receiving hourly updates on its location."

Sidious' eyes widened, and he leaned back. This was certainly unexpected. A pleasant surprise but a surprise nonetheless. Sidious frowned, studying Ozzel, who was staring at him with an expectant expression. This may actually turn out to be even better than capturing the _Resolute. _A tracking beacon could lead them to the rebels' impromptu base, which would prompt an even larger catch.

_Perhaps the man is not a total loss, _Sidious mused.

"Captain Ozzel," Sidious said suddenly, and Ozzel jumped in surprise. "Yes, my liege?" he said hurriedly.

"It appears that I was…misguided…in my early appraisal of you," Sidious said, the honey-gilded words hurting his throat as he choked them out. "You have showed surprising initiative and the ability to bounce back from crippling losses. I indeed underestimated you, and offer you both my congratulations and heartfelt apology for my earlier rushing to conclusions."

Ozzel blinked in surprise at the sudden transformation Sidious had undergone, his brow furrowing in suspicion that this might be some kind of trick, but relief soon won out. "Thank you, my liege," he said, bowing again. "It is my place to serve y-"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sidious said irritably. "Don't interrupt me again. Anyways, I shall recommend that you receive a promotion to full admiral to be placed in command immediately."

Ozzel blinked in surprise. A promotion directly from captain to admiral was nearly impossible, something he had only dreamed of. "Oh, thank you my liege," he said with another hasty bow, forgetting in his gratefulness Sidious' order not to interrupt again. "You shall not regret it. I-"

"No, I'm sure I won't," Sidious said tiredly. "Anyways, see do it that those updates come directly to me and to the Fleet Headquarters every hour. Dismissed."

"My liege," Ozzel said, and the hologram vanished.

Sidious leaned back in his chair, at peace once again in his inner sanctum. He glanced outside the window, and the Coruscanti sun suddenly seemed a whole lot brighter.


	6. Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

**A/N: Wow. So, so far, this story has gotten over 7,700 hits. Frankly, I'm shocked, and very flattered. Thanks for all the support so far, and please enjoy.**

Chapter VI

EWS 419

Psi Olympus system

March 22nd, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

Ensign Damon Anderson was bored.

No, bored was an understatement. He was not simply bored; bored was something you experienced on rainy days when you couldn't go play outside, or during an AI teacher's history lecture during school. What he was experiencing now, as a crewman aboard a UNSC Navy Early Warning Satellite floating out in literally the middle of nowhere took that kind of boredom and multiplied by several exponential figures.

Sighing for the fourth time in as many minutes, Anderson figured he may as well check the instrument panels. As EWS 419's systems chief, he was the one that ran and oversaw the delicate instruments and Slipspace drones that the station used to detect incoming Slipspace arrivals.

He knew the answer before he even bothered to check, but he did so anyways, out of pure habit and the fact that he merely needed something to keep his body occupied so his mind wouldn't go even more stir-crazy than it already was.

There was nothing. It was always nothing. Ever since he had been stuck on this forsaken satellite three months ago, there had been nothing to break the monotony. All freighters and other civilian or military vessels entering the Psi Olympus system almost always came by the much safer and traditional trans-Malthereon routes (Malthereon being the large gas giant in the Psi Olympus system that was the closest planet to the only human-colonized body in the system, the colony of New Arcadia) instead of coming out here where EWS 419 floated, in between the dangerous EMP fields of the White Crab Nebula and the swirling asteroid belt that separated it from the rest of the star system. Indeed, EWS 419 was little more than a formality, a warning satellite posted at the edge of the system for the mere purpose of filling another neat little dot in on a neat little map in some neat little headquarters on Earth or Reach or wherever.

Anderson sighed again and raised his wrist, peering at the data bracer there and the calendar he always had pulled up.

One month. One standard Earth month standing between him and his tri-annual rotation back to the city of Emerald Haven on New Arcadia. Lush, seaside, civilized, female-populated Emerald Haven. Groaning, he lolled his head back and folded his hands behind his head, propping his boots up on the instrument panel and wondering for perhaps the one-millionth time this week what in the world he had been thinking when he signed up for this shit.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. Anderson had been born on the mining planet of Forge, a place that had escaped the bulk of the brutal Human-Covenant War mainly because of the fact that it was _too blasted unimportant_ for anyone to care if it got glassed. Apparently, the aliens had figured the same thing and skipped over the place. Forge had existed for the sole reason of giving the overpopulated human race somewhere to spill over into, its only redeeming aspect being the large amounts of hydrogen-rich coal that it exported, which human companies pressed and broke down to turn into the hydrogen fuel-cells used in modern vehicles. Nearly the entire planet's population had been employed in the industries devoted to mining the coal-like stuff, and Anderson's family had been no exception.

It had not been a fit for him. Anderson had been a bit of a free spirit, not one willing to accept that he would toil for life on some piddly-ass world that no one cared a bit about, just as his father and grandfather had before him, men who preached on how the noble profession of mining drove the industrial might of the UNSC. His father was a gruff old soul, a war veteran made even gruffer by the death of his wife and Anderson's mother a year after Anderson's birth. Anderson didn't remember much about his mother, other than that she had been a beautiful but sad young woman, used up by the mines and a life that offered no reprieve and no joy.

Anderson's father had not approved of the younger Anderson's constant desire for adventure and freedom, and there had been many shouting matches in the Anderson household between him and his father and siblings, all of whom had accepted their lot. It got to the point where his father threatened that if he didn't obey him, he would be out on his own. To his surprise and regret, Anderson had called his father's bluff, and soon found himself ass-first on the sidewalk with a pair of suitcases filled with all his belongings and the door slamming behind him.

He had drifted for a while, staying at friends' houses and getting into a bit of trouble with the law after he joined a street gang. The judiciary had given him a choice; serve your time, or join the military. Anderson had chosen the navy, figuring it couldn't be that bad of a gig.

The Human-Covenant War had left humanity and the UNSC a shattered, empty wreck of itself, its population reduced by billions. As such, the UNSC military was so weakened that it would take years to rebuild itself to its pre-war strength, even with the help of the Elites. As a result of that, their recruitment campaign had understandably been a little misleading.

Anderson snorted at the memory. When he signed his name on the Navy recruiter's paper, he had expected to get in quick, get promoted to captain within the year, get his own ship, and go off on wild and crazy adventures, meeting alien races and saving lives.

How wrong he had been.

Either he had pissed off the wrong people up in the hierarchy somehow or he was just naturally unlucky, but this was Anderson's third posting on an Early Warning Satellite. Three years spent on these tiny, cramped satellites, sharing a single bathroom and bunkroom with two other people. He sighed; in the small area, tempers understandably flared, and after a few weeks of living on one of the stations, which consisted of only an observation room, dormitory, bathroom, small hangar, and instrument room, the crew's basic objective devolved from staying alert for possible intruders to merely trying their best not to murder one another.

Something that was getting considerably harder each day, Anderson realized, gritting his teeth as the sharp, French-accented tone of his superior, Lieutenant (jg) Marie Charbonneau reached his ears.

"Will you stop that sighing?" she snapped. "You sound like a fan."

Anderson snarled. "It's a pity I'm not. Then I could sit here and annoy you all day and not have to listen to you complain."

Marie huffed at that. "I should write you up for insubordination."

Anderson snorted. "Oh, bullcrap. You don't have the guts for that."

"Take your feet off the desk," Marie snapped in response, seeking to change the subject. "You're going to mess up the instruments."

Anderson rolled his eyes. Marie knew as well as he did that the instruments on the satellite were safe and secure under the metal sheet he was currently resting his feet on, but he didn't want to fight anymore, so he reluctantly lowered his legs. "Bitch," he muttered under his breath.

He immediately regretted it, as Marie apparently had sharper hearing than he had originally thought. "What was that?" she said sweetly, her voice that of a predator stalking prey it knows it has already caught.

Anderson froze. "Um, nothing," he said, too late.

Marie shook her head. "No, no, you definitely said something. I heard it."

"I didn't say-"

"Yo!" a new voice said. "Old married couple! Gimme a little peace back here."

That comparison seemed to work, as Anderson and Marie drew back, casting disgusted glances at each other before focusing their mutual ire on the third and final member of the crew, Ensign Jacob Brown, the station's "custodial personnel."

Anderson preferred to call him a janitor.

"And what, pray tell," Marie said, voice dripping with honey, "is it that makes you so immune to the annoyances of this place?"

"Simple," Brown said. The ensign was where he always was when he wasn't cleaning, hunched over a holotable in the cramped viewing room playing solitaire. "You two are in the Navy for a career," he said, mumbling around the ever-present gum in his mouth, which he chewed and snapped obnoxiously loud and with unceasing regularity, a fact that had caused Anderson to consider the pros and cons of strangling as a means of silencing a man many times. "You want to make something from your careers, do things, go places. I'm just in to get a good pension, then ditch, get married, have kids, and grow old and fat and happy." He finished his statement with another snap of the gum before smiling at the hand he had drawn. He stood up. "I'm going to the bathroom."

"Don't plug it like last time," Anderson sniggered, prompting a sturdy "screw you" from Brown, and even a giggle from Marie.

"He's got a point," Anderson said, turning back to face Marie.

"I'm surprised you understood it," Marie retorted.

"Well, good to meet you, too," Anderson responded acidly. He glanced down at his watch and turned to leave the instrument room.

"Where are you going?" Marie asked.

"Going to watch the sunrise," Anderson replied snippily. He was grateful when she didn't respond, and he walked down the tiny hallway into the observation room.

The only perk of working on this cramped station was the view, Anderson thought as he took a seat on the couch. The large pane of tempered glass that stretched around the length of the observation window, providing a stunning view of the stars and the White Crab Nebula, as well as the gas giant of Malthereon in the distance.

While it wasn't quite a sunrise, as it was more of the sun coming into view around the swirling gas giant, it was still quite a breathtaking sight. The sun's burnished rays shone down on the roiling clouds of Malthereon, casting the gas giant in an orange-pink light that seemed to radiate into the stars. Anderson felt an odd sense of peace watching it as he reflected on how much things had changed.

The year was 2593, and humanity was well on its way back to becoming a major power. Planets glassed by the Covenant had, with the help of the Elites, been slowly and painstakingly re-terraformed, and human expansion began anew again. Government subsidies for large families encouraged the rapid growth of the human population which, while still nowhere near the pre-war highs, had improved to a healthy level from the near-extinction levels of 2553. Rapid re-militarization programs had been instituted; the UNSC had not been prepared for first contact with the Covenant, and it had resulted in billions dead. This time, the UNSC doctrine was to be that if first contact with a new aliens species was made, it would be humanity, and not the aliens, that was the dominant species.

The relationship with the Elites, or Sangheili, as they preferred to be called, had likewise matured. While still nowhere near what could be described as _friendly_, the two species had realized that they depended on each other for their mutual survival. The Elites had taken the greatest share of the burden; they assisted in the rebuilding of humanity's lost empire in an attempt to restore what they referred to as their "honor debt" to the humans for the billions of innocent they killed in a wrongful war, upgraded human military equipment and shouldered most of the responsibility of driving away the Covenant Loyalists. The UNSC had done what it could by suppressing the frequent rebellions of xenos, rebel terrorist groups that violently opposed any alliance with the Elites.

It had taken years until the Loyalists were finally defeated, the remnants of the Covenant driven away into a remote corner of the galaxy. Several species that had joined the Separatists, such as the Unggoy and the Mgalekgolo, were permitted to remain, but when it was revealed to the Unggoy that they were no longer going to be pressed into service with the military, they largely retreated to their homeworld of Balaho, choosing peace over war. It turned out that they were surprisingly skilled craftsmen, an art that had gone unnoticed during their centuries of slavery to the Covenant, and goods produced on Balaho rapidly became in high demand among the human and Sangheili economies. Most of the Mgalekgolo chose to stay in the Sangheili military, having known no other life.

And so, it appeared that the sun (a figurative expression still in use in the 26th century, despite the fact that it was known that there were millions of suns in the universe) was rising on humanity's expansion. The lessons from the war had been learned at a steep price, and the UNSC did not intend to repeat them.

Unfortunately, trouble had a habit of findings its way to their door, whether they wanted it there or not.

The station's intercom abruptly came alive with the voice Anderson least wanted to hear. "Damon," said Marie, her voice tinged with worry. "Get in here. Something's happened.

Anderson groaned. Couldn't he have just one minute alone?

Nonetheless, as much as he hated it, she was his superior, and had to be obeyed. "What," he yelled back as he exited the observation room. "Did your soda spill again or something?"

The response was faster than he had anticipated, angry and worried. "Dammit, Anderson, I don't have time for this. This is serious!"

Anderson frowned as he entered the instrument room, to find Marie hunched over the controls, an incessant beeping permeating the air.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Is something coming in?"

"I don't know," Marie confessed. "It just started beeping a minute ago."

"Did you check the flight logs?" he asked tiredly as he slid into his chair.

"Yeah," Marie said. "The only things listed for today are a few freighters coming in during the afternoon and a passenger liner in a few hours."

"Maybe they're showing up earlier," Anderson said with a shrug. "You know as well as I do that it's hard to accurately predict Slipspace travel."

"Maybe," Marie admitted, "but they were all coming by the trans-Malthereon route, not through here."

Anderson frowned at that. "What drone was it that detected the incoming signal?" he asked, referring to the three Slipspace probe drones the station was equipped with. Made of nearly sheer titanium-A, the drones were used to scout the eleventh dimension all around the system for incoming contacts.

"None of them," Marie said.

"What?" Anderson said. He turned to the console board, and sure enough, none of the drones' alert panels were lit up. Neither was the Slipspace Mass Detector, or SMS, usually the first alarm to be tripped when a ship was detected.

Instead, the solitary beeping alarm was the High-Speed Object Sensor, or HSOS (Anderson preferred to call it the hot sauce sensor.) It was little more than a technicality on the EWS satellites, as all known ships used Slipspace drives, which transported them between dimensions. The HSOS detected objects moving at extreme speeds in the same dimension as sub-light objects. In this case, it said that the bogey in question was about a single light-day distant.

Anderson squelched the alarm, feeling himself calm down. If it was a hot-sauce bogey and not a Slipspace bogey, that probably meant it was just some rogue asteroid. He had no idea how they got accelerated to such speeds as they somehow managed, but that was the job of the high-forehead folks at UNSC Astrophysics, not his. He picked up a pen to log the object (all station personnel were required to keep physical as well as electronic records, to ensure accuracy of data) when he noted the speed on the object; it was over 299,792,458 meters per second.

In other words, it was traveling faster than the speed of light.

"What the-?" Anderson said, the pen falling from his limp fingers.

Asteroids, unless they somehow plowed into Slipspace, did _not _travel faster than the speed of light. It just didn't happen.

And yet here it was. Directly in front of him. Anderson gaped for a moment, his mind trying to wrap itself around the sheer impossibility of an object that was still in the sub-light realm moving at faster-than-light speeds. It was impossible. No known technology or natural event could accelerate objects to such speeds.

Yet somehow, it was staring him in the face.

Anderson's heart began to beat faster as he realized the magnitude of what was happening here. His training asserted itself and he quickly realized that this could be one of only two things; it was either a revolutionary scientific discovery, in which case his career could be advanced by light-years, or it was a ship, equipped with some type of propulsion that by all rights should be impossible.

In which case, the prospects of a new first contact were looking ever more-likely.

"What do you think?" Marie asked, leaning over his shoulder like an old woman, all traces of nastiness gone from her voice.

"I don't know," Anderson answered truthfully, "but I'm gonna find out." He swiveled in his chair, moving towards the controls for the Beta probe.

"What are you doing?" Marie asked, seemingly back to her normal annoying self. "You know that all use of the Slipspace drones beyond their normal programming routes must be expressly authorized by the station comman-"

"So shoot me," Anderson said in an exasperated voice. "I don't know about you, but I want to know what's going on here." When she didn't respond, Anderson continued.

The Slipspace probes were exactly that; Slipspace probes. They were designed to operate in the eleventh dimension, and were not intended to be used like the Clarion-class spy drones carried by UNSC warships. However, the same basic aspects were still the same; they could still be maneuvered in a limited sense in the normal dimensions, and were equipped with the basic sensor package available to every UNSC ship-of-the-line in addition to their more specialized gear. If he could drop one out of Slipspace near the object, he could get a few more detailed readings on it as it passed through.

It would be tricky, though. With the speed the bogey was traveling at, as well as the slipperiness of navigating Slipspace exits, he would have to be very careful.

Gamma probe was the closest to the anomalous bogey, so that was the one he selected. While the probes usually continued on their automated patrol routes, their limited software did contain an override command in case they needed to be commandeered in such circumstances as he was experiencing now. The override code, long considered a mere technicality but dutifully memorized anyways, came rushing back to his brain as he typed it in, steadying his fingers: _Alpha sigma gamma sigma delta beta five_.

_Code confirmed._

_ Identity as UNSC EWS satellite 419 confirmed._

_ Awaiting commands._

Anderson nodded in satisfaction. He entered the limited data he had on the anomalous bogey-namely its speed, location, and general bearing-into the station's computer, and it immediately spit out the coordinates and maneuvering instructions that would be required for the probe to get there. Anderson entered those instructions in return into the probe's "brain" and allowed the automated probe to do the work.

000

Many light-hours distant, a small boiling hole opened in the fabric of space as Gamma probe dropped out of Slipspace. A split-second later, moving too fast to be captured by any organic eye, a shape rushed past, speeding towards the Psi Olympus System.

The probe had no idea what the significance of the event it had just witnessed. It was merely doing its assigned command, and as it sent back the data package it had acquired, it had no inkling whatsoever of the consternation it would cause.

000

EWS 419

_Receiving signal…_

_ Receiving signal…_

_ Receiving sig-_

_ Data package successfully received. Opening. Please wait._

Anderson sighed in relief. He had been worried that, considering the vast distance between EWS 419 and Gamma probe, the data package might not get through. It appeared his fears were unfounded, though.

But, as he opened the data package onto the computer holoscreen, he almost wished that it hadn't gotten through.

Anderson read the list quickly, his alarm growing at each new line. Ignoring the pleas of Marie for information in the background, he focused in on the main readings the probe had picked up.

First, the object was _huge. _Over a kilometer. Another strike against the asteroid theory; while some asteroids could get to the size of moons, most were smaller than a hundred meters.

"What is it?" Marie asked, craning her neck to try and see the screen around him.

"Will you shut up and let me finish?" Anderson hissed in annoyance, and to his surprise, Marie backed off.

The final strike against the hope that everything was normal was dispelled as Anderson read further. The object was practically _oozing _radiation and electronic signals, like a massive interstellar flare. That indicated that it was definitely not natural-made, since it appeared to have some kind of propulsion system.

Finally, the probe had managed to use sensor pulses to construct a crude wire-outline of the shape of the object. Anderson pulled the wire-frame drawing up on his console holoprojector, rotating it around, fascinated.

It was definitely a ship. That much was obvious by the construction. It had a very pointed brow that broadened into an arrowhead shape with a crook near the stern and engines. Two towers arose from the center-back hull area, culminating in where Anderson assumed the bridge would be.

Just to make sure, Anderson ran it through the archives. No surprise; it didn't match any known ship design, whether human or alien.

Anderson slumped back into his chair. First contact. And earlier in the day he had been wishing for some excitement. He half-smiled at the irony.

Of course, they didn't know whether the ship would drop out, or just keep going. Anderson quickly plotted the vessel's current course, and it was shown as swinging through the Psi Olympus System between Malthereon and Durite, a small, rocky, atmosphere-less world on the systems' fringes.

"What is it?" Marie asked again, although Anderson could tell from the nervous tone in her voice that she already knew the answer.

"It's something we've never seen before," Anderson responded truthfully. He swallowed, mustering his courage. "Tap into the COM networks. JULIET Contingency is hereby declared in the Psi Olympus System, and all surrounding systems are to be put on alert."

Marie jumped into action as if someone had prodded her with a stun baton, ignorant or uncaring of the fact that she had just been issued orders by an ensign. Anderson immediately began to wipe all data from the station's archives and download it onto the emergency chip kept for just these circumstances. In case of first contact, the crew of an EWS was to wipe their station of all data, prime the self-destruct charges, and evacuate via the SKT-13 shuttlecraft in the satellite's small hangar.

As Marie opened up the COM networks, seeking to contact the UNSC ships in-system, Brown emerged from the bathroom.

"Hey, guys," he said. "I didn't plug it this time!"

Anderson rolled his eyes and continued to wipe the systems.

"Guys? Guys?" Brown asked, frowning when he received no response. He peeked into the instrument room, saw the wire-frame of the alien ship and the bright red letters "JULIET Contingency declared" marching across the holoscreen, and his eyes went wide.

He vanished.

On the way back to the SKT-13, Anderson and Marie would later find him curled up against one of the struts of the shuttlecraft, rocking back and forth and muttering "I don't want to die."

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga _(DD-442)

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

The planet of New Arcadia was much like its namesake, a jewel of a world known for its tropical clime and beautiful vegetation. One of the more successful of the Outer Colonies, it was deemed important and valuable enough UNSC High Command to merit a small, permanent defense force. The planet's static defenses consisted of three Orbital Defense Platforms that boasted huge Magnetic Accelerator Cannons, capable of propelling a 20,0000 ton projectile to nearly half the speed of light, the kinetic energy of which was usually more than enough to smash a ship to pieces, shields or no.

The mobile portion of the defense force consisted of Battlegroup Valley Forge. B-VF was classified as a "light" task force, which was appropriate. It was made up of all light-tonnage vessels, the largest being the "flagship", the escort destroyer UNSC _Ticonderoga_. The remainder of the force consisted of five frigates-the _Brandywine, _the _Concord, _the _Bunker Hill, _the _Trenton, _and the _Monmouth_-and three corvettes, the _Argus, Shadowfax, _and _Bucephalus. _

The overall responsibility of commanding Battlegroup Valley Forge fell to a one Captain Hannah Farley of the UNSC _Ticonderoga. _It was a burden she bore with the utmost responsibility, honored that she had been given command of an entire light battlegroup. Born on the moon of Kyran XII, she had gotten into the navy in response to the massive demand for officers to captain the new ships that the UNSC's reinvigorated military was churning out, and there she excelled. One of the youngest officers ever to attain the rank of captain, she was often referred to among the fleet as the "new Miranda Keyes", a comparison she didn't mind but wasn't overly fond of.

Right now, she was sequestered in the captain's quarters of her vessel, a small ten-meter by ten-meter room she was lucky enough to call her own. It was early in the morning by New Arcadia time, but it was almost noon on Reach, and she was due to submit her comprehensive after-action report to FLEETCOM headquarters by then. Last week, a pair of civilian yachts souped up by pirates had attempted to hijack a freighter. These pirates were apparently a bit brave, however, as it took the intervention of the UNSC _Trenton _and its squadron of F-898 Rapiers in order to convince them it was a bad idea.

Hannah sighed and ended her last sentence, stretching out her fingers. While the holographic keyboards now in use relieved much of the strain of typing, when one had been doing it for hours as Hannah had, it was still nice to relax.

Unfortunately, periods of relaxation always seemed doomed to premature endings. The private intercom in her room buzzed, the voice of her communications officer breaking over the waves of static. Hannah was tempted to goran, but kept silent. "Captain," the intercom said. "We have a priority message for you."

Hannah frowned, straightening. "Source?"

Pause. "It's from one of the Early Warning Satellites, ma'am."

Hannah felt a thrill of alarm run through her, but controlled her voice through years of practice. "Patch them through to my quarters," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

A few moments later, static washed across the small video screen on her wall, quickly replaced by the image of a young woman wearing the insignia of a Lieutenant (jg) sitting in the chaotic control center of an Early Warning Satellite. Shouts and other sounds could be heard in the background, adding to the pandemonium.

"Lieutenant," Hannah said briskly. "I demand to know what exactly is going on-"

"With all due respect, captain," the lieutenant said with a distinct French accent, "we don't have time. Suffice to say, we have detected an incoming contact; the ship profile does not match any known design. We are working on contacting HIGHCOM, and are officially declaring JULIET Contingency. Your ship's AI should be receiving the relevant data now."

Many officers would have been shocked at the issuing of such a dire contingency order and would have demanded to see proof. Hannah, however, knew that EWS crews, while often bored to death during their long deployments, would never dare making something like this up. Crying wolf to that magnitude would likely result in an instant court-martial and an unceremonious drum-out from the Navy.

Hannah nodded curtly. "Understood," she said. "The _Shadowfax _will be deployed to pick up your shuttle and return you here." Before the war, such a journey would take hours, but with the new technology offered by the Covenant Separatists, UNSC ships were now able to execute the same pinpoint Slipspace jumps that had so frustrated them during the war.

"Thank you," Marie said, her tone flustered, and she gave a small nod of her head. "_Adieu_." The screen vanished in a buzz of static.

The key to success was to not think too hard about the bigger picture. Hannah shoved all the questions to the back of her mind, focusing instead on formulating a plan. UNSC first contact policies called for cautious attempts at communication, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

The captains' quarters were located a floor directly above the bridge, so all Hannah had to do was step into the lift and take it down. She pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner located outside the door, and the computer matched her print to the one logged in its memory, chirping its acquiescence as the doors slid open.

The first reaction of many civilians and journalists upon first seeing the bridge of a UNSC destroyer was surprise at how small it was. And indeed, the brain and nerve center of the mighty warship was indeed a small room; dominated by video screens and the large transparisteel viewing window, the five bridge stations were all clustered around the edges while the captain's chair sat in the middle, surrounded by a semi-circle of consoles. A pair of Marines provided security, watching all with steely gazes that missed no detail.

_It's good to be home,, _Hannah thought.

"Captain?" said a new voice, as the form of an Artificial Intelligence unit materialized over the bridge's holotank. Hannah recognized it immediately as Gates, the _Ticonderoga_'s assigned smart AI. In keeping with the whole Revolutionary War theme of the battlegroup, he took the form of an American colonial general, complete with the blue uniform, shoulder epaulets, and tricorn hat. "I have received a data package from EWS 419. Is this-?"

"Yes," Hannah said, "this is the real thing." She swept her gaze over the bridge crew as she settled into the command chair. In her years captaining the _Ticonderoga_, she knew their quirks and skills as well as any. Ensign Graham Harrell at Navigation was the consummate bridge officer; smart, quick-thinking, and taking any order without question.

Lieutenant Holly Baumgartner stood post at Operations; she was competent enough, even if she did have the odd habit of talking to herself during the most menial of tasks.

Lieutenant (jg) Geraldo Ramirez manned the communications post. He was fresh out of OCS, over-eager to prove himself but with enough sense to keep his bluster to himself.

Ensign Karina Talbot manned Sensors. Tall, blond, and professional, Talbot was someone that Hannah would trust with her life.

Finally, Lieutenant Klimov Kerensky manned Weapons. The squat, mustachioed Slav never spoke much, but he was a frightening man behind the barrel of a MAC cannon, and, combined with the abilities of Gates, could pick off enemy ships hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.

Hannah nodded once, her approval that everything was in order. "Dispatch orders to the _Shadowfax_," she ordered Ramirez. "And tell the force to form up on me. We're going to make a precision jump."

"Understood," Ramirez said as he began his work, and Hannah turned to Kerensky. "Spin up both MACs," she said. "Heavy shells in both. And key-up the Barrett missiles." She did not intend to use force as her first option, but after the disastrous First Contact with the Covenant, she wanted to be sure it was an option.

"Ma'am," Kerensky acknowledged with a dip of his head, apparently agreeing with his captain's logic.

"Captain," Gates reported, his tone as clipped and formal as ever. "The task force has formed up and is ready for a tandem pinpoint jump."

"Jump on my mark," Hannah said. "Three…two…one…mark."

A massive roiling hole was torn in the fabric of space as eight Mark-V UNSC Slipspace drives activated, and Task Force Valley Forge vanished into the eleventh dimension.

_Time to make history, _Hannah thought.

GNR _Resolute _

The rec gym of a Venator-class cruiser was a combination of lounge, weight room, and tapcafé, the natural place for off-duty soldiers and crewman to congregate. It was strange, then, that at this moment, the gym was almost entirely empty.

The reason for that lay in the two figures that whirled and danced about on one of the sparring pads. Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker and his apprentice Ahsoka Tano leapt about, rolling all over the mats as their lightsabers met in crackles of electricity.

It was a breathtaking sight to watch the two Jedi duel. They executed moves and flips impossible to any normal human, accessing the Force to grant themselves advantages. Their blades, one green, one blue, crashed together and whirled apart, each seeking an opening.

As it were, however, neither of the Jedi were concerned with anyone that might be watching. Anakin had suggested the sparring match as a way to test the capabilities of Ahsoka's newly-healed leg, and had intended on taking it easy. However, the young Togruta had apparently recovered more than he had anticipated, and despite his warnings, had escalated the friendly sparring match into a full-fledged duel.

Anakin took a step forwards as Ahsoka landed a flip, bringing his lightsaber up to intersect the sweeping arc Ahsoka's own was executing. The two super-hot blades intersected with the stench of ozone as the two Jedi pushed against each other, testing their opponents' strength.

Knowing that Anakin had her hopelessly outmatched in that regard, Ahsoka suddenly disengaged, sweeping her blade low at her master's feet. Anakin deftly leaped up, the green blade sweeping under his feet. Ahsoka recovered quickly, jabbing forwards to force Anakin back.

As Anakin evaded, his foot slipped outside the sparring circle.

"Ha!" Ahsoka cried in triumph, lowering her blade. "I got-"

Her cry of victory was cut off, however, as Anakin rolled forward, whipping his blade up and out to catch Ahsoka's lightsaber and force it out to the side. Yelping in surprise, Ahsoka dropped the blade, and Anakin brought his lightsaber up to the side of his apprentice's neck.

"Don't celebrate before your victory is assured," he chided with a smile, closing down his blade and running a hand through his hair. It came away soaked in sweat, and he smiled. This had been a good exercise.

"But-but, you cheated!" Ahsoka protested as she retrieved her blade. "Your foot slipped outside the circle. I won!"

Anakin's smile faded as he clipped his blade to his belt. "Ahsoka," he said, "consider this. Pretend you're in a dogfight, leading a squadron in defense of the _Resolute. _Suddenly, a burst of friendly turbolaser fire takes down your shields. While they're down, an Imperial fighter puts a pair of lasers straight into your cockpit. At that temperature, all the liquid in your body will turn to steam immediately, and your body will literally _explode_. When that happens, will you complain that the Imperial cheated?"

Ahsoka thought about it for a moment. "No."

"Then what will you say?"

"I wouldn't say anything," Ahsoka said sullenly. "I'd be dead."

Anakin nodded. "My point exactly." He sighed. "Ahsoka, these people that we're fighting, they don't play by the rules. They won't give up if their foot slips outside the proverbial ring. They'll shoot you in the back if you have to, and we have to be prepared to do the same."

Ahsoka frowned. "But Master, isn't that against the Code? It says-"

"The Code, the Code!" Anakin snorted, turning away. "Don't talk to me about the Code. We followed the Code for generations and where did it lead us? To extinction!"

Ahsoka was shocked at the emotion in Anakin's voice. "Master?" she asked. "Is something wrong? You never spoke about the Code this way before."

"Nothing's wrong," Anakin replied quickly. Almost too quickly, Ahsoka noted with a suspicious frown. "You're right. I spoke out of turn. Please, return to your room."

"Master?" Ahsoka said. "I-"

"Our sparring is over for today," Anakin said, a little harsher than he had intended. "Got to your room and meditate; I will check on you later today."

Ahsoka's rebellious nature attempted to rise to the surface, but she knew now was not the time for an argument. She took it, suppressed it, forced it down. "Yes, Master," she said dutifully, and exited the gym.

Anakin stayed there long after she had left, alone in the gym. He had almost given up something there, almost given his deepest secret. He would have to keep a closer guard on his tongue in the future.

Anakin's comlink buzzed, and he answered it. "Skywalker here."

"Anakin, good to hear you," Admiral Yularen responded. "We're about to exit hyperspace in a few minutes; thought you'd like to be with us when we do."

Anakin thought about it, then shrugged. Why not? "Thanks," he said. "I'll be there."

Anakin left the gym, entering the chaotic hallways of the _Resolute. _The battered old Venator had taken even more of a beating during the battle with Ozzel's forces, and Yularen's suicidal charge had really done a number on the _Resolute'_s subsystems. Portions of wall panels were missing, exposing sparking wiring that technicians were working at with fusion cutters. Because of the massive new tear in the _Resolute_'s hull, many of the rooms and compartments on the port side were unusable, meaning that the rest of the ship was incredibly crowded. At some points, wounded were literally lying the halls outside of the hospital bays, since there was not enough room inside, and Anakin had to step over them to get through. With all of the ship's traffic forced through its newly-limited hallway network, the corridors were packed full. The clones and crewmen did their best to allow the Jedi through, but it was still tough going to get to the bridge.

When he finally did, he found it was in no better shape. Anakin stepped onto the bridge to find a scene of utter chaos; repair drones floated around, working on exposed patches of circuitry. Many of the bridge consoles were dark, wiring hanging out in clumps. Some were still smoldering, fire-extinguishing foam still drying on their blackened forms. Yularen was standing the middle of it, the eye of the hurricane. He turned around as Anakin approached, the Jedi neatly sidestepping a floating repair drone coming up from the lower decks.

"Ah, Anakin," he said, feigning a smile, but Anakin could tell from his manner that he was dead tired. "So good to see you h-"

The admiral was cut off as the bridge lights suddenly cut out, plunging the room into darkness.

"Blast it," Yularen whispered. "That's the third time this morning. Hal!" he bellowed. "What is it now?"

"Sorry, sir," replied the voice of a clone, and Anakin strained his eyes to see a white-armored form lying under one of the bridge consoles, elbow-deep in exposed wiring. "Pulled the wrong plug." The lights came back on a second later, and then winked back out. This time, there was a muffled curse, followed by a spark, and the lights finally came back on for good.

"Anyways," Yularen said, turning to face Anakin again. "As I was saying-"

Whatever Yularen was saying, however, seemed fated to remain unsaid, as an astromech droid from across the room rotated its domed head and unleashed a flurry of chirps and whistles in Yularen's direction. "What?" Yularen bellowed in frustration, and Anakin hid a smile as he sensed the admiral's sudden urge to drop-kick the astromech out the bridge window.

"I don't care if it's spliced already, and I don't care if you have to patch in your own circuitry to do it, just get that console up and running!" Panting heavily, he turned back to face Anakin. "Sorry 'bout that. The past few hours have been absolute madness."

"I can tell," Anakin said tactfully.

"Anyways," Yularen said, casting a suspicious look around to make sure he wasn't going to be interrupted again before continuing. "We should be dropping out shortly. We've made some preliminary sensor scans while in hyperspace, and our targeted system appears to have but four planets, one of which is about Coruscant's size and with a breathable atmosphere. We may be able to set down there for repairs."

Anakin nodded. "A wise move," he said.

True to the admiral's prediction, it was only a few more minutes before the swirling vortex of hyperspace broke down into the pinpricks of distant stars, and the _Resolute _transitioned back into the black void.

"Report!" Yularen called immediately.

"We're busted up pretty bad, sir," Hal replied as he reviewed the stats on his newly-repaired console. "There're only four turbolaser turrets and ten laser cannons operational. Proton torpedo tubes on and four have collapsed, and I'm getting hull integrity warnings in sectors VA4 and DA3."

"Reactors?" Yularen asked hopefully.

"Shot to hell," Hal responded truthfully, shooting down that hope. "that was the last jump we'll be doing in a while. I can get thirteen percent out of Engines Two and Four, and eight percent out of Engine One. Engine three is out completely, and we've got random electric pulses running through the system." The clone's last words were confirmed as a nearby console suddenly burst into flames. The bridge's fire alarm came to life as a nearby repair droid sprayed some fire-retardant foam onto the console, putting out the fire with a hiss.

Yularen rubbed his forehead. "Launch a probe," he said. "I want data on that second planet in the system. Helm, make best speed towards that planet."

"Sir," both clones replied, turning to their consoles. The _Resolute _slowly accelerated, Epsilon milking every last bit of speed he could out of the battered engines.

It still felt like a crawl compared to their former speed.

"Probe away," Terron called as a white streak of light shot forth from the Venator.

Anakin took a deep breath. "Well, then," he said. "If there's nothing else for me to do, I suspect my presence is greater needed among the wounded."

"Of course, of course," Yularen said distractedly. "Go as you wish."

Anakin gave a small bow and left, and Yularen sagged into the command chair, rubbing a the newly-developed bags under his eyes. He was looking forward to these repairs, if only for the reason that he would finally get some sleep.

It was a while before the probe returned the data. Terron forwarded it to Yularen's station, and the admiral read it with growing interest as he scrolled down the list. It appeared to be a tropical world; warm climate, close to Coruscant-normal gravity, and, most importantly, a breathable atmosphere. It would be a nice place to spend some time, Yularen thought, if they weren't running for their lives.

However, there was one minor detail towards the end that through a bit of a wrench in his plans.

_Artificial objects detected in orbit around planet. Many city-like formations of buildings on planet's surface._

Someone already lived here.

Yularen sighed leaning back in his chair. This complicated things immensely. Even if the natives were peaceful, it was highly doubtful that they enjoyed kilometer-long spaceships swooping down into their backyards. The last thing Yularen needed was another war.

Yularen was about to issue orders to halt so he could rethink their plan when a voice suddenly called from off to the side, "What the hell?"

Yularen frowned, looking over to where Fermion was staring out the bridge window. "What is it?" he asked.

Fermion hesitated before responding. "Uh, sir?" he finally said. "I think you need to see this."

A thrill of alarm went through him at those words, but Yularen nonetheless complied, standing up and walking over, his joints creaking with every step.

What he saw stunned him.

There, half a million kilometers off the _Resolute_'s bow, a giant, white _hole _was boiling and expanding the middle of space. It was massive, at least a hundred kilometers across, growing and roiling violently.

Spectroscopic analysis was even more confusing; it appeared that the anomalous hole was literally made up of _nothing_; and not just the normal nothingness of space. This was almost _negative _nothingness, as if a gigantic hole had been ripped into the fabric of space.

"Sir?" Epsilon asked. "Should we take evasive maneuvers?"

Yularen didn't respond, too fascinated by this strange development. He knew he should probably run; this could be a quasar for all they knew, or some other phenomenon that could devour ships whole.

"Sir?" Epsilon asked anxiously. "Sir, should we-"

Suddenly, the hole collapsed inwards with the same suddenness with which it had appeared, leaving behind undisturbed black space. Just before it did, however, eight shapes came shooting out of the hole, all in a neat wedge formation.

Ships, Yularen realized. They were ships.

None of them were larger than the _Resolute_, but they were all constructed in a blocky form that appeared completely utilitarian in appearance with grey-black hulls and compact designs. As if they had been built for only one thing: war.

"Sir!" Sigma said. "Unknown ships are contacting us!"

That snapped Yularen out of his reverie. "What? How? Can you patch them through?"

"Working on it, sir," Sigma said. "Their communications suites are remarkably similar to ours. Got to work out a few more bugs and…there!"

The bridge's holoprojector suddenly came to life, spitting up the image of a young woman in a white fleet uniform. Yularen blinked in surprise as their eyes met; what were humans doing out here in Wild Space?

The woman seemed just as surprised as he was. "You're human?" she asked, at the same time that Yularen did.

As if that wasn't awkward enough, as second later she responded, "You speak English?" at the same time that Yularen replied, "You speak Basic?"

There was a full ten seconds of silence as the two factions pondered this unexpected development, and then the woman smiled as she spoke again. "It appears things have gotten off on the wrong foot," she said. "I am Captain Hannah Farley of the United Nations Space Command. And who, exactly, are you?"


	7. Many Meetings

Chapter VII

**A/N: How many hits? It's…OVER 9,000! Over 12,000, to be exact.**

**Once again, thanks. This is rapidly becoming the most successful story I have written, and I thank you all for it.  
>Also, I believe a great many questions will be answered in this chapter about the Covenant Separatists and the nature of their alliance with humanity. <strong>

**Responses to reviews: many thanks to everling, who posted a deeply humbling review about the many flaws in my current Early Warning System. While I had intended for most EWS satellites to be operated by dumb AI, as you suggested, I thought that a manned satellite would better express the shock of those inside when the unknown contact appeared. However, I really appreciated how well-thought out and detailed your review was, as well as how much sense it made, and will try to make such systems more realistic in the future. Kudos to you, friend.**

**Also, I made a mistake in the previous chapter that said that the ODPs fire a 20,000 ton shell. As Pinto pointed out, that was supposed to be 3,000. I'm deeply sorry, and I have no idea how that happened. **

**To DamionKenley117: Yeah, I suppose I did kind of take liberties there, eh?**

**And for others out there, if you have criticism, don't be afraid to voice it. I'm a big boy; I can take a little heat. **

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

Falchion Base, near Emerald Haven, Illerean subcontinent

March 23rd, 2593, 1621 hours

During the darkest days of the Human-Covenant War, there were many among the human emergency-military government that had given up hope of ever surviving, let alone winning. It was a reasonable assumption to make, what with the way colonies were dropping off the grid like flies and the seeming inability of human forces to stop the Covenant forces. However, there was one part of the human defense that never gave up, that never tired in its ceaseless defense of humanity. And for all its twisted machinations, power-plays, shadow operations, and morally shady experiments, the Office of Naval Intelligence was likely the only reason humanity had survived for as long as it did.

After the Human-Covenant War, faced with the prospect of suddenly making peace with aliens instead of finding ways to kill them, ONI was momentarily at a loss of what to do. As the UNSC returned to its pre-wartime role of an actual acting military and the UEG recovered governmental control, the carté blanché that the Office had been given during the war to do whatever it wished to further humanity's survival had been withdrawn. Much of the power that ONI had accrued during the war had been stripped nearly overnight in the face of public outcry as thousands of previously-classified documents depicting the necessary, if brutal, actions the Office had taken were released. The outrage was partly justified-many of the programs that ONI had sponsored had been, to use generous terms, on shaky moral ground-but to many in the upper echelons of the Office, such a sudden and brutal betrayal by the people they had worked so arduously to protect was unforgiveable. As ONI's power was scaled back to its pre-war levels, many top officials had resigned in disgust, reluctant to part with the power they had so long enjoyed and claiming that ONI was being castrated by anti-war fanatics.

The result was that the UNSC was left with a primary intelligence agency that was arguably one of the most well-deployed, well-entrenched, and effective that any the galaxy had ever seen, with almost no solid leadership left.

The following years had not been kind to ONI, as the Office desperately tried to reestablish an effective head while bickering and backstabbing began among the lower ranks. Finally, in 2580, President of the UEG Timothy Hall appointed Vice Admiral Candace Kyashi to head the Office with one order; clean the shit up.

It was generally agreed-upon by almost everyone that Kyashi was a cold-hearted bitch. However, it was also generally agreed-upon by almost everyone that, despite her heart (or seeming lack-thereof), she was blasted effective at what she did.

In a space of a year and a half, Kyashi had cleaned house at ONI with the effectiveness of carpet-bombing, clearing out all the rats and squabbling power-grabbers with an age-old brutal philosophy; you did what you were told, or you were fired. The Vice Admiral completely reshaped and reordered the entire structure of the Office, cutting out all the bureaucratic committees and fat that plagued the agency and making it slimmer, leaner, and more efficient. While many figurative heads had rolled during what many dissenters saw as the scalping of the Office, it couldn't be denied that Kyashi's reforms worked. In 2585, headlines began to appear across the galaxy praising the admiral's harsh reshaping of the Office, proclaiming that "ONI is back and better than ever."

For Colonel Carter Rutherford, acting chief of all ONI assets in FLEETCOM Sector Six, which included the system of Psi Olympus, truer words had never been spoken. And while Kyashi no longer headed ONI, replaced in 2590 by a Brit by the name of Lancaster, the system she had set in place remained in use.

Which meant that, the instant EWS 419's proximity alarm had gone off, a report had been automatically sent to ONI headquarters at CASTLE Base, on Reach, in the Epsilon Eridani System, FLEETCOM Sector One. From there, data analysts determined in the space of a few seconds what it had taken Ensign Anderson several minutes to confirm; the UNSC was expecting company. From there, ONI assets in Sector Six had been contacted, and Colonel Rutherford had been informed that he was going to be the official ONI liaison to the negotiation process for as long as it may last while further UNSC and Covenant Separatist forces were inbound.

Which meant he needed to be getting starside, and fast. Carter pushed back from his desk. He checked the office to make sure everything was neat and orderly just the way he kept it. He paused before he left, checking himself in the mirror.

Carter was not an old man, especially not considering that by the 26th century, human medical technology had expanded the average lifespan to approximately 150 years, thus shifting the definitions of young and old. However, at forty-three, he was not by anyone's definition young.

Despite that, however, Carter felt that he had taken reasonably good care of himself. While being a colonel in ONI could often become a desk job, Carter liked to get out into the field himself as much as possible. He performed his customary good luck charm by scratching his beard three times, then straightened his cap, smoothed out a few wrinkles in his black ONI uniform, and stepped out the door of his office.

"Going, sir?" asked his receptionist, a young petty officer.

"Yeah, I figure it's about time for me to be getting up there," Carter responded, shrugging on his jacket. As he did so, he glanced up at the video screen mounted on the wall. It was tuned to the local news channel, but Carter suspected the same thing would be playing across the colonies.

"Again," the anchor (who was an unnatural shade of pale) was saying, "just this morning Fleet Admiral Chester Bergstrom confirmed that the UNSC has indeed made contact with what they called 'an unidentified, nonhostile, ship of alien origin'. And while no official videos or photos have been released, an amateur photographer took these two pictures last night of an unidentified ship in orbit above the planet." Two images flashed on the screen; they were blurry and out-of-focus, as could be expected from the average civilian-level telescopic cameras, but they distinctly showed the form of an arrowhead-like vessel. While several UNSC ships, notably the newer _Nova_-class carriers, utilized an arrowhead design, none of them exhibited the strange crook at the stern that this vessel exhibited.

"And while no official news has been released yet of a meeting," the anchor continued, "UEG President Arthur Graham made a statement to the press earlier this morning saying that, 'the extra-terrestrials do not appear to be hostile, and we are in the process of cooperating with them'. That being said, however, he also said that, in order to be prepared for any contingency, the UNSCDF was being mobilized in preparation of a 'possible unfortunate outbreak of hostilities'."

"Hard to believe, isn't it, sir?" the petty officer said.

Carter grunted. "You can say that again." He stepped out the door.

Falchion Base was the center of all ONI operations in FLEETCOM Sector Six, located just outside New Arcadia's capital city of Emerald Haven. Built into the side of a mountain, it was arguably the most secure structure on the planet, capable of withstanding a direct hit from a forty-megaton nuke. Inside, the immaculately-clean hallways were always bustling with ONI security personnel, agents, and workers, along with robotic maintenance droids.

All of them, however, split to the sides to make way for Carter, recognizing the eagle on his cap and shoulders that marked him as a Colonel. Carter made his way up through the progressive levels of the base, towards the hangar. The hangar itself was at the top level of the base, nearly halfway up Mount Gardheim. Two massive blast doors sealed the hangar off from the sky, which could be opened or closed as necessary.

Carter took the lift up to the hangar, showed his Office ID to the security guard in the booth outside the hangar, and was allowed entrance. Inside the hangar was a plethora of different aerial vehicles, but Carter headed for his private shuttle on the far right side.

It was going to be a long day.

000

Reverence-class cruiser _CSS Inexorable_

En route Psi Olympus System

092 units, 40th Year of Alliance (Sangheili battle calendar)

Shipmaster Ri'shek Markum clicked his mandibles impatiently as the Reverence-class cruiser _CSS Inexorable _traveled through the Slipstream. Ri'shek was relatively young for a Sangheili-barely past his sixtieth unit-but his family's high standing among the Separatist Navy and his own tactical prowess had granted him command of the formidable ship he now commanded. His task force also consisted of the two frigates _Indomitable Faith _and _Perseverance of Spirit_. They had been on patrol at a Covenant Separatist colony in a nearby system when the word came out that there was a possible first contact scenario taking place at the human system of Psi Olympus, and as the closest Separatist forces, had gotten the nod to go assist their human allies.

Human allies. Ri'shek snorted in amusement, his mandibles stretching in an approximation of a grin. Nearly forty years after the war ended, it was still a strange phrase on his tongue. He had been born early enough to remember the Human-Covenant War. He remembered the propaganda of the lying Prophets, of the foul Covenant, how they had fought and slaughtered the humans for years without question. Even then, as a young and idealistic Minor Domo, he had wondered why the humans were considered heretics. While he would consider no species to be the equal of the Sangheili, he had respected the humans. They were quick-thinking, tenacious, and willing to die for their comrades, worthy adversaries and certainly possessing of more honor than the loathsome Jiralhanae. They were intelligent enough for real battlefield ingenuity and made effective use of their weapons, primitive thought they might be. They would have made a worthy addition to the Covenant.

But then came the Schism, and all of Ri'shek's fears and doubts were confirmed. With that dastardly betrayal, the lot of the Sangheili had been cast in with that of the humans, former bitter enemies forced to work together for their own mutual survival. Ri'shek had rose to prominence then during the Containment of 2564-dealing with an unexpected Flood outbreak on a human colony world that was subsequently glassed to prevent further spread of the disease-as well as the Pacification War, in which the remnants of the Covenant Loyalists were pushed into a far corner of the galaxy. He received a promotion to Shipmaster, the greatest honor of his life, and was now trusted with making contact with an alien species.

"Navigation," Ri'shek asked. "How long until we are expected to exit the Slipstream?"

The navigation chief, a veteran Sangheili by the name of Xy'can Entar, swiveled around in his hoverchair. His left hand was missing two fingers-a gift from a Jiralhanae during the Schism-but he was still an excellent pilot. "Approximately-"

"-forty-three standard minutes," replied a new voice as a flash of light suddenly materialized over a bridge holotank. "Or units. Whatever you bloody split-lips call it."

Ri'shek's temper flared, but he kept it under control as he annunciated his next words carefully. "My name, computer," he said, "is not _split-lip_. It is Shipmaster Markum, and you will address me with the respect due my rank." He focused his glare, one known to make Jiralhanae back down, on the source of his ire, a hologram over the bridge's holotank that took the form of what the humans called a "dragon".

Whatever. To Ri'shek, it looked like one of the sand lizards on Sangheilos.

"And by that line of argument," the dragon-computer retorted, its calm voice annoying Ri'shek to no end, "I feel inclined to correct you that my name is not _computer_. It is Elindar. Or, if you wish, you may call me UNSC/Separatist Smart AI attaché-018. Your choice."

Ri'shek groaned, regretting starting the argument. "Very well," he said, "just leave me in peace. If you're so desperate for entertainment, go recheck the jump integers in the reactor database."

"A mere pittance of my processing power," Elindar sighed, "but I shall do as you command." The hologram vanished, leaving the bridge beautifully silent once again.

Ri'shek shook his head in disgust, leaning back in his command chair. For all the good things the humans had come up with, their artificially intelligent computer systems annoyed Ri'shek to no end. After the Human-Covenant War had reached its conclusion, the Sangheili had born the brunt of the burden in defeating the Loyalist remnants and assisting humanity's reconstruction. In return, despite the protests of many members of their military, the humans had cautiously given select Separatist ships some of their AI units. The humans' Artificial Intelligence units had been the only area where they had an advantage over the Covenant, as advanced AIs had been deemed by the Prophets as heretical, while the humans' AIs were capable of hacking into almost any Covenant database. As such, while Ri'shek couldn't deny the thing's (he refused to think of any machine as having a definite gender) usefulness, that didn't mean he had to like it. He was used to commanding his ship through real, live beings, not through some too-smart-for-it's-own-good computer. Ri'shek shook his head in wonder. The humans must like uppity subordinates to have created such strange computers.

However, he had to admit, they were effective at what they did. But even that didn't mean he had to like them.

Ri'shek felt his thoughts drifting to the supposed aliens they were going to be contacting. The thought, while he would never admit it, unsettled him somewhat. The last time he had encountered aliens, it had been the humans. However, there was no telling that this time he would be on the winning side.

Ri'shek shook his head, banishing such thoughts. _Dereliction of confidence leads to dereliction of duty, _he recited to himself, the Thirty-First rule of Warfare taught him in battleschool. He would not allow himself to be intimidated by creatures he had not yet met.

True to Elindar's prediction, it was a few more minutes until the _Inexorable _and its task force were ready to transition. The cruiser's Slipspace drive disengaged, and the three ships transitioned into real space.

The alien ship was in plain sight, over a kilometer long. It's arrowhead shape and obvious weapons made it a formidable sight, but Ri'shek appraised it with a critical eye, noting the scars and burns across its hull, including one grievous rift that ran nearly half the length of its port flank. This craft had seen some serious action.

Ri'shek also reacted in surprise as he saw the fleet that the humans had already amassed in-system. He knew there had been one light battlegroup guarding the system when the aliens arrived, but since then, twelve more ships had arrived. The _Inexorable_'s tac computer pinned the largest as the UNSC _Antietam, _first of the human Navy's new _Pulsar_-class battleships. Nearly as long as the _Inexorable _at two and a half kilometers, Ri'shek knew the vessels were in short supply, almost always used as the flagships of high-ranking human officers.

That was confirmed as the _Antietam _hailed them, a hologram of a white-uniformed human with two stars on his cap appearing on the bridge. Ri'shek rose. "Flee-admiral," he said, still not used to the strange names humans used for their Fleetmasters. What was an 'admiral' anyways?

Admiral Jarod Hawkins nodded and spoke. "We don't have much time, son," he said, which confused Ri'shek. He was about to remind the human that they were not father or son when he remembered that older humans had a strange habit of referring to younger beings as "son". _An odd custom_, he thought as he shook his head, but one he would have to respect nonetheless.

Hawkins continued, "we've contacted them and arranged a meeting. You're the highest ranking Separatist within a light-year, so you're the de facto representative."

"Understood," Ri'shek said, with a bit of pride. He frowned as something occurred to him. "Wait, you said you contacted them already?"

Hawkins nodded slowly. "Yes, that's right."

"You translated their dialect already?" Ri'shek asked, surprised.

Hawkins swallowed and looked around as if wary of unveiling a secret before lowering his voice. "Listen," he said, "I know you're not going to believe this," he said, "but, they're human."

Ri'shek blinked. "Come again?"

Hawkins repeated. "They're bloody human. Just like me. Same language too. Thing is, we have no record of them whatsoever, no reports of a lost colony or any technology like they appear to have. They're claiming they're from some 'Grand Republic' or whatever."

Ri'shek clicked his mandibles thoughtfully. "You are correct. That is hard to believe."

Hawkins smiled. "You have no idea. Anyways, we're trying not to start another war here, so don't scare them too much, alright?"

Ri'shek frowned. "I understand the physical appearance of my species can be unsettling to humans-"  
>"-because you look like a bloomin' monster from a child's closet," Hawkins muttered.<p>

"-but I feel that these humans will not be so easily intimidated," Ri'shek finished.

000

GNR _Resolute_

Psi Olympus system, New Arcadia

Admiral Wulf Yularen stood stiffly in the lower hangar bay of the _Resolute_, hands clasped behind his back as he awaited the arrival of the representatives of the "United Nations Space Command" and their allies.

And they definitely had allies; right before Yularen had headed down to the hangar bay, another one of those odd portals had opened and three ships had entered the system. However, their architecture was so different from those of this so-called "UNSC" that he knew they couldn't possibly be from the same race. Whereas the humans ships had been blocky, grey, and completely utilitarian in appearance, with sharp angles and lines, these ships were entirely different. Their hulls were a silver in color, smooth as water and flowing in graceful curves and bulbous heads. One of them was nearly three kilometers long, dwarfing the _Resolute_.

Not that it really mattered; the battered Venator was in no condition to take on even a pleasure corvette, let alone an alien warship, no matter how small or large it may be.

Yularen glanced to his side, confirming that Anakin, Ahsoka and Padmé were indeed standing by him. It was possible that he may need Padmé's diplomatic expertise in this venture, and Anakin and his Padawan, backed by the squad of clone troopers he had brought with him, should provide ample security.

His earpiece buzzed. "Their crafts are approaching, sir," Fermion said in his ear.

Yularen nodded. "Good," he said. He turned his attention to the magnetic field that kept the atmosphere pressurized; or more specifically, the rapidly growing shapes beyond it.

There were two different craft, both light-years different in their design, and it didn't take much to figure out which set of ships each had came from. However, neither of them appeared very diplomatic in their nature; one of them was grey and angular in nature, sporting a large cannon underneath the nose and what appeared to be missile mounts on the wings. The other was oblong in shape, with a deep purple hull and a similar turret-like construction under the nose.

Yularen swallowed. These people were either very suspicious of strangers or intending to start a war. His conversation with "Captain Farley" as she called herself had seemed amiable enough, but he started to get a little nervous as the two ships passed through the selectively permeable membrane of the hangar and settled to the floor.

The angular craft turned around, lowering itself to the ground as little jets on its wings and towards the rear rotated and fired, bringing it to the correct elevation. _Thrust-vector technology? _Yularen thought. How primitive. Most of the known galaxy had switched over to repulsorlifts years ago. Of course, living in the Wild Space did help excuse someone from the latest galactic trends.

The other vessel, however, seemed to have no such problems. It pivoted and lowered without such much as a whine of repulsorlifts, instead the quiet thrum of what sounded like anti-gravity devices. It remained, hovering, a good ten meters off the deck, and a beam of light appeared to extend from a hole in the bottom of the hull.

The angular craft was the first to disembark its passengers. There was a hiss of pressurized air, and the ramp on the back extended. Six human figures wearing black, angular body armor with opaque visors stepped briskly down, holding black rifles of an unfamiliar design across their chests. Yularen could feel the clone troopers behind him tense, and he gave them a "stand down" signal with a flick of his wrist. Based on what he had seen of these people so far, they were extremely paranoid. Bringing weapons to a peace meeting, however much of a social faux pas it may be, was likely a way of life to them.

What's more, however, was that the new humans did not appear to carry any blaster gas cartridges on them. Instead they wore large black magazines in their vests, reminiscent of slugthrower weapons.

_Slugthrowers in space? _Yularen thought, hiding a smile. Perhaps these people were more primitive than he thought.

Three more figures appeared at the top of the ramp, falling into position in the middle of the black-armored soldiers. One of them was a woman with long brown hair, and Yularen recognized her as the one he had spoken with upon his first entering this system. She wore a white dress uniform with two bars on her shoulders with stars and stripes on them, one angling towards the other, as well as several colored ribbons and medals over her left breast. Not too different from his own uniform, Yularen thought uncomfortably.

Next to her was an older man, with bits of white hair showing from under his dress cap. Two stars were emblazoned upon his shoulders and cap, and his uniform was embroidered with gold braid and a multitude of medals and ribbons.

Behind them, almost as an afterthought, was the third man. He would have been easy to overlook, considering the first two arrivals, but something about him told Yularen that this would not be a person to underestimate. He was dressed, in contradiction to the other two officers, in a black dress uniform. A gold eagle adorned each shoulder as well as the cap, and emblazoned over his heart was a symbol Yularen did not recognize. It appeared to be a triangle or delta shape, with a large eye in the middle. Over the top was written "Office of Naval Intelligence", and underneath, "Semper Vigalenes."

So he was obviously a member of some sort of intelligence agency. However, Yularen had no idea what the words meant, and made a mental note to ask.

Those three stepped forward their honor guard following closely behind. The older man, who appeared to hold the highest rank, stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Admiral Yularen, I presume?" he asked. His voice had a strange accent, like Corellian except thicker.

Yularen stared at the hand for a moment, at a loss of what to do. Finally, he said, "I-I am ignorant of this greeting custom."

"Oh," the man said awkwardly, as if confused. "You're, um, you're supposed to shake it."

"Shake it?" Yularen asked, confused.

The man smiled. "Yup," he said, "just take it and shake it."

Feeling slightly silly, Yularen reached out and took the other man's hand in his own. The man had a firm grip, but not overly so as they shook. "Pleasure to meet you," the man said. "I am Rear Admiral Jerod Hawkins of the United Nations Space Command."

"A pleasure," Yularen said. Hawkins moved down the line to shake Anakin's hand, as well as Ahsoka's and Padmé's as the woman who called herself Farley stepped up next.

_A strange custom, _Yularen couldn't help but think in amusement as she shook his hand and continued down the line. Only the man in the black suit abstained from the ritual, choosing instead to stand back with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression.

After they were done with the strange "shaking hands" thing, Yularen politely cleared his throat and gestured towards the other shuttle. "Are your friends be going to make an appearance anytime soon?"

Hawkins sighed. "Oh, bloody split-lips. They're probably reciting some honor oath or something." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in the general direction of the craft, "Oi! Shipmaster! In case you hadn't noticed, there's some bloody important business goin' down here. Do show up for our jolly new friends, what ho?"

For a moment, nothing happened. And then, three hulking figures dropped down from the beam, landing on the hangar floor.

Yularen automatically recoiled in fear, as did the others in his party, and wondered if these creatures were indeed the best ones to be poking fun at.

They were massive; easily over three meters tall, covered in sets of interlocking intricately-carved body armor. However, their most disconcerting feature was their mouths; instead of a standard set of jaws, they had a queer quadruple-set of mandibles, lined on the inside with rows of razor teeth. Above that, on their reptilian heads, pairs of dark, intelligent eyes flashed about, taking everything in with unflinching gazes. Two of them were dressed in deep red suits of armor with gold fringes, and carried in their four-fingered hands large staffs with bladed ends that hummed with energy. The other one was wearing a suit of brilliant burnished gold, and bore no visible weapons other than what appeared to be a small, cylindrical object clipped to his thigh.

Not that it looked as if they needed any weapons; Yularen figured that the mere sight of them alone was often enough to send wise opponents fleeing in terror. They also seemed more than capable of crushing any poor brave fool who dared resist.

All in all, a strange race to be seen allied with humans, but Yularen was guessing that he'd rather be on their good side to start out with.

The golden-armored…creature…marched forward, its apparent honor guards staying two paces behind.

It looked like it could take care of itself, at any rate.

Yularen swallowed and instinctively stepped backwards as the alien approached. Anakin tensed to the right of him, and Yularen raised a hand. Anakin reluctantly let his hand fall from the pommel of his lightsaber, and the clones kept their weapons shouldered, even though Yularen could sense that they were uneasy.

Finally, the creature spoke. To Yularen's shock, it spoke nearly perfect basic. The voice sounded disturbingly human, coming from within those vicious mandibles, although it boomed and resonated within the hangar. "Greetings, human," it (he?) said, clenching a hand over its chest. "I am Shipmaster Ri'shek Markum of the Separatist Alliance, son of 'Rkan Markum, Field Marshal of the Covenant. It is a great relief to see that there are others of your race in the galaxy."

Yularen stammered. "Th-thank you," he finally forced out. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

There was a moment of awkward silence as the parties exchanged wary glances, and Yularen finally realized it was up to him to take the first step. He turned towards the door. "If you'll just follow me," he said.

000

ISC _Stiletto_

Psi Olympus System

Hundreds of thousands of kilometers distant, something shifted in the blackness of space. It was only for a moment; a few stars obscured for a brief moment before returning to their original brilliance as if nothing had ever diminished it. Shadow moved on shadow, darkness against darkness, and then all returned to its normal state, nothing amiss.

Nothing amiss, that was, except for the small matter of the Imperial stealth corvette that hung motionless in the empty vacuum. Nearly impossible to detect on any sensors and painted as black as the interstellar void, the ISC _Stiletto _was nothing more than the proverbial fly on the metaphorical wall, observing with great intent and interest the events unfolding nearly a million kilometers away.

In the heart of the corvette, buried deep within so as to better mask any signals that may be emitted, Captain Rayalen Tyal of Imperial Naval Intelligence stared at the vidscreen on the wall that showed the view from the _Stiletto_'s bow camera. A former commander of an _Arquitens-_class light cruiser, Rayalen found that he rather missed the romantic view of the stars that craft's panoramic bridge windows had provided. The "bridge" of the _Stiletto _was little more than a glorified tech room, stuffed to the brim with gadgets and computer terminals and with all the maneuvering room of a walk-in closet. Nonetheless, he supposed, the romanticism of a view of the stars would soon disappear should the corvette fall under attack, a very real possibility if its position were given away. They had arrived in this system only a few hours ago near a large nebula that had hopefully masked any clues they might have left to their arrival, and had been slowly drifting closer to the center of the system ever since. Rayalen had the location of the nebula logged in the starchart; it could prove useful for partially disguising the entrance of the Imperial fleet when it arrived.

Rayalen glanced to the side, where two wire-frame holograms of the two distinct types of alien ships floated. The contrast between them was incredible; shocking, even, the flowing, smooth lines of the silver cruisers breaking with jarring force from the blocky, angular hulls of the other ships. The blocky ships all had the same insignia on their side next to the ship names, that of a large bird with its talons firmly implanted on a planet and the letters "U", "N", "S", and "C" on a scroll below.

Well, whatever these aliens were, they spoke Basic. That would make the negotiating process easier once the Imperial fleet showed up to reclaim their quarry.

Rayalen turned to the helm. "Maintain holding pattern," he ordered. "I'm going to inform Admiral Ozzel of our discovery."

He didn't even bother waiting for the "yes, sir", merely striding off the bridge towards the captains' quarters.

000

GNR _Resolute _

Psi Olympus System

Admiral Jerod Hawkins leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed across his chest and staring with one eyebrow raised at the old man across the table. "Mister Yularen," he said slowly, "that's one hell of a yarn. An entire galaxy, undiscovered by us? Mysterious warriors with special powers? Betrayal by some Dark Lord?" he shook his head. "Forgive me if I seem forward, but the whole thing sounds like something out of a holobook."

"It's true," Yularen insisted. "You can check the ship logs if you desire confirmation."

Hawkins shook his head. "No, I trust you," he said. "No one could make up a lie that complicated in the amount of time you just did. It's just that this whole thing is a bit unexpected."

Beside him, Ri'shek rumbled, the massive Sangheili shifting. Since no chairs in the conference room were large enough to accommodate him, he had chosen to stand, something that made him appear even more intimidating that he already was. Yularen had to fight the urge to gulp as the alien spoke.

"This tale seems a bit too tall for my liking," Ri'shek said, distrust evident in his voice. "If your 'Jedi' have such strange powers, perhaps you would be willing to demonstrate them?" He stepped back, folding his arms across his chest in a disturbingly human-like motion.

Anakin glanced over at Yularen. "May I?" he asked, eagerness permeating his tone.

Yularen sighed. "Yes, yes, go ahead. Just don't do anything stupid."

For a moment, nothing happened. The other humans and the single alien stood back, all watching Anakin with skeptical curiosity.

With the exception of the man in the black suit. Yularen frowned, noticing that that man-who had yet to speak-had widened his eyes at the mention of "telekinetic powers." It was only a micro-expression, a brief flash of surprise that was quickly stifled as his face returned to its normal unreadable state, but it was enough for Yularen to notice.

His feelings for the man were only reinforced. _He knows something, _Yularen thought. _He knows something about this. _

Yes, this would definitely be a man to watch.

For a moment, nothing happened. Ri'shek began to speak again, but was abruptly silenced as a pile of papers on the table suddenly began to float upwards. Ri'shek blinked, rubbing his eyes and looking again to make sure the illusion was gone.

It wasn't. Instead, the pile of papers had risen higher into the air, somehow remaining together while at the same time _floating, _as if they had an antigravity device on them. As he watched, they began to move around the room, doing complex loops and swirls. Ri'shek glanced back at Anakin; the so-called "Jedi" did not appear to be making any physical effort, only a slight occasional twitch of his finger. The alien girl with them-Ri'shek thought he had heard them call her "Ahsoka"-was watching with a huge smile.

"Impossible," Ri'shek whispered in an awestruck voice, but then his natural skepticism reasserted itself. "How do we know you don't have an anti-gravity device rigged there?" he asked.

Yularen blinked in surprise. For these people never to have encountered the Force…well, he didn't know what cave they'd crawled out of.

Of course, the alien's question still left them in a dilemma. Since there was no way to prove anything in the room wasn't rigged, they were stuck.

Anakin, however, was the one that found the workaround. "I could try lifting one of you," he said. "That would prove my genuineness."

Hawkins and Ri'shek looked at each other in shock. "You can do that?"

Anakin gave one of those patented roguish smiles of his. "Easily. Anyone care to volunteer?"

There was an awkward silence, no one apparently eager to let themselves become the test subject of some wizard. Finally, the young woman-Yularen remembered her introducing herself as Captain Hannah Farley-stepped forward. "I'll volunteer," she said calmly.

Hawkins grasped her by the arm. "Captain," he said, his voice low. "Hold on a moment. We have no bloody idea what these people are planning with this demonstration, what they're capable of-"

Hannah, however, shrugged off her superior's arm, and his concerns. "I've faced Brutes before, admiral," she said gently. "A little telekinesis shouldn't be too disconcerting."

Hawkins grumbled something under his breath, but leaned back in his chair, apparently defeated. "Fine," he said, shooting a warning glance at Anakin. "But no shenanigans, alright?"

"No harm will come to her," Anakin promised, before turning his gaze on Hannah. The captain squirmed uncomfortably under his stare, feeling a bit like a caged animal being prepped for an experiment, but Anakin's eyes held no malice as he spoke. "You might feel a little tingling," he said, almost like a doctor as he held up a hand.

Hannah closed her eyes.

Then her feet left the floor.

Hannah's eyelids snapped back open, giving a little squeal of alarm as she felt herself literally floating up into the air. Hawkins and Ri'shek were staring at her with something akin to fascination mixed with revulsion, while the ONI colonel appeared to swallow briefly before hurriedly consulting something on his data bracer.

"By my father's blood," Ri'shek swore softly. "What devilry is this?"

Hannah was slowly lowered back to the floor, and she quickly sat back down into her chair.

"No devilry," Anakin said assuredly with a small bow. "Just a gift."

Hawkins stared blankly ahead. This was ridiculous, he told himself. Stuff like that didn't happen. It just didn't. That was crap from bad sci-fi holo-movies and old fantasy books. Not the stuff of real life.

Nonetheless, it was right in front of him, whether he liked it or not.

Yularen smiled, sensing that he now had the upper hand. "Now that we have established the legitimacy of our case," he said, leaning forward and folding his hands. "Shall we move on to more pertinent issues?"

"Such as?" said a new voice, and Yularen started in surprise, his head whipping up to identify the speaker.

It was the man in the black suit. This was the first time he had spoken throughout the entire meeting.

"Colonel Carter Rutherford, Office of Naval Intelligence Sector Six," he said, sliding into the chair. "I have a few questions for you." He turned to his comrades and the rest of those in the room. "If I could have a moment alone with the admiral?" he asked.

Anakin looked at Yularen hesitatingly, wondering if this colonel had something up his sleeve. Yularen glanced at the man who called himself Rutherford, saw no deceit in his eyes.

"Fine," he said. "A few minutes. We shall continue this meeting after a short break."

Quietly, the other occupants of the room filed out, leaving only the admiral and the colonel. Yularen fidgeted nervously under the man's stare, feeling somehow pinned and trapped.

Little did he know ONI officers had that effect on almost everyone.

"Are there any microphones in this room?" he asked.

Yularen started. "What?"

Carter sighed. "You know. Microphones? Recording devices of any sort?"

Yularen shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "This was built as a confidential meeting room. It is completely secure from any intrusion-"

"Splendid," Carter said, cutting the admiral off with a wave of his hand. His own sweep of the room had already confirmed this, but he liked to start out an "interview" with easy questions to get his subject relaxed.

"Now," he said, leaning forwards. "You referred to this…power…as what?"

"The Force," Yularen answered unhesitatingly.

Carter leaned back, steepling his hands in front of him. "The Force. Right." He sighed and leaned forwards again. "Listen," he said. "I still have no idea who the hell you are or where you came from. But suffice to say, if any of this conversation ever leaves this room, I will have no choice but to kill you. Understand?"

Yularen gasped. "Are you threatening me?" he demanded.

"Not at all. Merely ensuring the continued confidentiality of information classified under Ultra-level security." Carter sighed. "By rights I shouldn't even be discussing this at all," he said, "but I've just gotten the go-ahead from my superiors. Nevertheless, know that if this leaks out, I will not only lose my career, but also my life."

Yularen pushed back from the table. "Now hold on just a minute young man," he said. "What exactly are you trying to pull here?"

"Sit down," Carter snapped, and Yularen felt surprised and humiliated to find himself obeying, returning to his seat.

Carter leaned across the table, and Yularen recoiled, feeling as if under the glare of a hunting kalidor hawk. "The only reason I am even thinking of what I am about to say in your general vicinity is that I've been ordered to by people higher up than I could ever dream of being. And these people happen to think that you might have the information we've been trying to get to for decades."

Yularen frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking abou-"

"And if you keep your end of the bargain," Carter said, "no one will."

"What barga-?" Yularen began, feeling thoroughly confused.

"We-the Office-can get you amnesty," Carter said. "Even if the UEG thinks it's a bad idea, we can keep you alive and protect you from your enemies. We have connections you could never dream of, sources and agents everywhere. That being said, if you cooperate, than you will not need to fear being attacked by the Empire ever again."

"What's the catch?" Yularen said suspiciously. This all sounded too good to be true.

Carter said nothing. Instead, he walked around the table until he was behind the admiral, leaning down to whisper something in his ear. "The catch," he said, "is that you are to never, ever, under any circumstances, even mention the name of Project: BLACKWING."


	8. Politics and Paragons

Chapter VIII

**A/N: To "Jacob"; I have messaged EtchedInDiamond, and they have disabled anonymous reviews for the reason that they want to know who the people reviewing are. If you want to review EID's stories, then my suggestion is to make an account.**

**This chapter is dedicated to the brave men and women of the United States armed forces, and the amazing Navy SEALs, who just this past Sunday finally delivered justice to one of the worst mass-murderers of the past two centuries.  
>To bin Laden, I got one thing to say: GOTCHA, BITCH!<strong>

Earth, Sol System, FLEETCOM Sector One

The White House, UEG Federal Enclave (Washington, D.C.) United States of America

March 25th, 2593, 1011 hours

If President of the United Earth Government Arthur Graham had to talk with one more PR staffer coming to him with a report in hand from one more media corporation asking for one more comment from the President on the recent brouhaha on New Arcadia, he was going to strangle them.

Well, Graham thought as he leaned back in his chair, perhaps that wouldn't be best. No, that would be very unprofessional. No strangling today. Instead just a nice, long, bath…in a pool of acid.

Yes. That would suffice quite nicely.

"Sir?"

Graham snapped out of his daydream, focusing his eyes on the nervous aide standing before him, hands folded nervously in her skirt as she spoke. "If I may remind you that Senator Carpenter would like a-"

"You can go tell Senator Carpenter that if he doesn't stop asking me every ten minutes if our position has changed he can shove his head between his legs and kiss his overly-pompous ass goodbye. I'm sure he's flexible enough to do it."

The aide blinked, shocked by the normally refined President's insult. "Sir, is that-?"

Graham sighed explosively, regretting his outburst. "No, of course that's not what I meant. Run that comment by Wilson and his PR department staffers; they'll fix it up."

"Okay, sir," she said hesitantly, "but-"

"But nothing," Graham butted in. "Just do it. Please," he added belatedly.

"Oh, yes, sir, of course sir," the aide stammered, dashing out of the office in a Roadrunner-esque smoke cloud.

"You know," said a voice from the side after she had left, "you're being awfully harsh on her."

Graham sighed and buried his head in his hand. "I know, Derek, I know. No need to be my conscience."

There was a small snort. "With all due respect, sir, if I hadn't been your conscience the past few years we wouldn't be here right now."

"Yeah, I get it! Okay?" Graham snapped, a little hasher than he had intended.

There was a pause. "You okay?"

Graham sighed deeply. "What do you think?"

Across the office, Secretary of State Derek Bradowski gave one of his patented winning smiles that had made him the media's favorite during their election run. "I don't know, sir," he said. "I was under the impression I wasn't paid to think."

Graham couldn't help but smile at that. "Just tired is all," he said. "For some reason, no matter how many times you say 'Negotiations are proceeding, no further comment', the press always wants to hear it at least three more times."

"That's what press secretaries are for, Art," Derek said gently. "Talking to the press. Hence the _press _in _press secret-_"

"Don't play smartass with me, Brad," Graham snapped, a little harsher than he had intended. He sighed, forcing himself to calm down again. "I don't want Wilson trying to handle this. God bless the man's soul, but he's far too inexperienced to be dealing with those jackals."

"The media or the politicians?" Derek asked with a lopsided grin.

Graham snorted mirthlessly. "Both." He sighed, pushed back from his desk, went to stand at the rear of the Oval Office, staring out the windows across the South Lawn.

This place has seen so much history, he thought. Eight centuries of guiding republics, democracies, and freedom. He ran a finger down the glass, wondering at the age of the structure that had been restored so many times.

And now it was at risk again.

It wasn't fair, Graham thought, that just as humanity was beginning to regain its feet after being driven nearly to the brink of extinction, some new harbinger of conflict arrived. The appearance of the "aliens" had thrown both everyone-human and Covenant Separatist-into a tizzy, with some factions calling for the "Outsiders" as they were now being called to be turned away to avoid another war, while others called for amnesty and preached the benefits of forming new alliances.

Graham wasn't quite sure which side he supported yet, a bad position for the President to be caught in seeing as there was an upcoming vote in the United Nations Colonial House (one of two legislative bodies of the UEG, the other being the Colonial Senate) next week on whether or not the Outsiders should be granted amnesty and allowed to repair their vessel in UNSC space. Graham was torn; as the one with the responsibility of guiding the human race to ultimate prosperity, he was loathe to become involved in another war, which seemed an eventuality if they chose to shelter the Outsiders from this "Galactic Empire" they were fleeing from. However, at the same time, the technological and economic benefits that loomed from possible alliance with the Outsiders were also staggering. There was also a case to be made for the UEG's moral responsibility in giving aid to the fleeing Outsiders. While Graham was by no means a man who granted amnesty to every bedraggled bum that came knocking on their intergalactic door, it was quite clear that the Outsiders had been the victim of a terrible betrayal, and the UEG in its charter had made it clear that its ultimate goal was for the betterment of _all _mankind, not just the ones that happened to be under the jurisdiction of Earth and her colonies.

Graham turned towards the video screen in the Office, which was even now tuned to the Omni-net News Agency channel, where a panel of guests was debating the same topic he was mentally facing now. Either choice would have serious ramifications, either choice would change the history of humanity forever.

But in the end, it would never be his choice to make.

000

Kuat, Kuat System

ISD _Imperium_

In the void above the Kuat Drive Yards, the largest fleet ever to be assembled in the brief but violent history of the Galactic Empire loomed large. Dozens of grey-hulled, angular ships, ranging from frigates all the way up to the massive new Imperial-class Star Destroyers hung in the vacuum, a display of force that was as terrifying as it was awe-inspiring. It was a sight that comforted those loyal to the Emperor and struck fear into the foolish hearts of those who dared to oppose him. Comprised of nearly seventy vessels of varying classes, Imperial Task Force Monolith was more than capable of crushing any resistance.

Standing on the bridge of the ISD _Imperium, _the mighty flagship of the task force, Admiral Kendal Ozzel could not help but feel a thrill of pride at the massive firepower available to him. The Emperor had entrusted this operation to him, and he would not fail. The objective of Task Force Monolith was simple; return the deserters and the rebel Jedi to Imperial jurisdiction by any means necessary. For that end they were well equipped, even with the news that the rebels appeared to be under the protection of an unknown alien civilization. It made no difference; either the aliens would cooperate and submit peacefully to the rule of the Empire, or they would foolishly resist and be crushed. Task Force Monolith was more than capable of overpowering the pitiful little fleet the aliens had amassed,

Ozzel found himself whistling a childhood tune, and smirked. He felt giddy, a strange emotion to him. It seems a promotion to admiral and the chance to lead the most powerful fleet ever assembled by the Empire did a lot to assuage a wounded ego.

He would reward the Emperor's trust in him, he vowed. This time, there would be no mixed failure. He would accomplish his mission. It was not a determination, it was a truth, he told himself. Nothing could withstand the might of the Empire.

Ozzel glanced at his chronometer, feeling like a child before his birthday. Twelve hours. Twelve hours until the fleet would execute their tandem jump to the _Resolute_'s last known position and bring back the traitors alive, or tow their shattered hulk of a ship back with their carbonized ashes still inside.

In that twelve hours, however, he still had a relative amount of free time. Turning to the nearest operations officer, he said, "Tell me, lieutenant, how is the stock of Corellian brandy in the officer's club?"

000

Cantam IX, Cantam System, Outer Rim territories

Temple Base

The heavy supply crate, filled to the brim with blaster rifles, power cores, and any other heavy objects currently available, quivered ever-so-slightly as it floated in an arc, the massive green box struggling to reunite with the ground, to submit to the laws of physics and gravity once again.

"You're losing control," Obi-Wan chided. "Focus your strength, _feel _the Force flowing through you."

"I'm trying, Master," replied Bren Tallar, the human Jedi Padawan whom Obi-Wan was currently addressing, through gritted teeth.

"Do not _merely _try," Obi-Wan insisted, watching the crate waver and dip as the apprentice struggled to move it in the pattern the Jedi Master had requested. "Trying plants the seeds of doubt; if you are truly one with the Force, you _know _that you will succeed."

Obi-Wan's lecture was cut short, however, as Bren's control faltered, the ponderous crate suddenly dropping and slamming into the ground with a sudden bang that made the Jedi Master wince. Panting, doubled over, Bren wiped a sheen of sweat off of his forehead. "I'm sorry, Master," he said. "It's just, so heavy."

Obi-Wan smiled gently, folding his hands in his sleeves. "That is because you are trying to lift it using your own strength, and not that of the Force. Watch." Obi-Wan reached out with the Force, twitching his finger. In accordance, the crate rose off the ground smoothly, easily, rotating in lazy circles in the air.

Bren watched in astonishment. That crate was an object of hatred among the Padawans like he that were learning to exert finer control over the Force; with all the objects inside, it weighed nearly as much as a fully-grown Wookie. Accordingly, the Jedi Knights and Masters at Temple Base (the joking name for the impromptu base established on Cantam IX) had decided to use it as a training tool. After a particularly brutal physical workout, the apprentices were expected to lift the crate and move it in complex maneuvers through the air. It had quickly become a hated object of the training.

Obi-Wan, however, appeared to be moving the crate like there was nothing to it. The Jedi Master hid a smile at the young man's shocked expression; Bren was actually doing very well compared to many of the apprentices and Padawans, but he couldn't let him do that. That would lead to pride, which might well lead to the dark side.

And the dark side had already claimed so much. Obi-Wan felt a twinge of sorrow at all that had transpired. Bren, barely fourteen, had lost his master in the battle at the Jedi Temple, and Obi-Wan, lacking a Padawan of his own since Anakin was knighted, took the lost boy under his wing. So far, Bren was showing extreme promise, but he just needed to exercise a little more control over the finer aspects of the Force. Obi-Wan's lips twitched in a smile as he realized how much the boy reminded him of Anakin.

Deciding that he had shown enough, Obi-Wan gave the crate one last spin before settling it gently down to the deck. Bren stood back, sucking in air and dripping sweat, shaking his head in non-comprehension of the Jedi Master, who now stood back, hands folded in his robes, not even breathing heavier.

"How…how do you do that?" Bren asked between breaths.

"Practice," Obi-Wan responded truthfully, and the Padawan groaned. "lots and lots of practice. The Force is not mastered overnight; it requires a lifetime of commitment to truly harness its potentials."

"Yes, Master," Bren responded dutifully, if a bit miserably at the thought of many hours of straining practice ahead.

Obi-Wan took a look around, taking in the scene around him. The room they were in was a large gymnasium-like structure, specifically designed to be a training room for the Jedi while they were in exile. Younglings and Padawans moved from task to task, straining and working under the watchful eyes of Jedi Knights and Masters, who moved in between the apprentices, overseeing and offering tips.

It wrenched Obi-Wan's heart to see how few of the Order were left.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Obi-Wan turned to see Bren already straining to lift the crate again. He hid a smile; at least the kid had determination.

"That's enough for now, I think," he said. "Go to your room, meditate for a while."

"Thank you, Master," Bren said in genuine relief, giving a small bow as he left. Obi-Wan sighed and left the gym, stepping into the halls of Temple Base.

Temple Base. Obi-Wan snorted mirthlessly at the name. It had been chosen for its symbolism as the refuge of the Jedi, but this place resembled a temple about as much as a child's bantha toy resembled an Imperial Star Destroyer. The place had been built out of ready-made living quarters and blocks brought down from the ships in orbit, welded together and equipped with atmosphere locks. The place was spartan in the extreme, the hallways bare and the running water tasting slightly acidic.

That was not what bothered him; Jedi were used to living in harsh conditions, and at any extent, it was good for someone to face hardships in order to preserve their discipline. It was the sense of isolation and hopelessness that seemed to stifle everything; that was what was bothering him. All of the Jedi felt it, even the younglings to some extent. It was manifested in the lines of worry on their faces, the aura of sadness and hopelessness they seemed to radiate. Even the clones that provided base security, trained and bred to be the consummate soldiers, also seemed slightly affected, their normally crisp movements sluggish and their conversations muted.

Obi-Wan stopped in front of a large window that allowed a view of Cantam IX's desolate, crater-blasted surface and the twinkling stars above. He lifted his gaze to the heavens, those same stars marking the thousands of systems under the Empire's control.

Perhaps searching for inspiration among the stars was not the best of ideas.

A stirring in the Force announced the presence of another Jedi, and Obi-Wan heard the distinctive clack of a gnarled wooden cane that heralded the entrance of Grand Master Yoda.

The small, wizened old Jedi hobbled slowly up to Obi-Wan's side, leaning on his cane as he too stared out the window. Master Yoda's size and apparent weak state were deceiving; the old Jedi could fight like none other when called upon.

However, as he proved now, Yoda was also extremely well known for his ability to lecture even other Jedi Masters on the Force.

"Much worry I sense in you, Obi-Wan," Yoda said. "Anxious about Anakin, you are?"

Obi-Wan sighed. The last thing he needed right now was a lecture about the dangers of worry and emotion. Nonetheless, he couldn't lie to his old friend. "Would you believe me if I said 'no'?"

"Then worried you are," Yoda said unnecessarily. He turned his head to look up at Obi-Wan. "Your worry, help Anakin, it will not."

"I know, Master," Obi-Wan said. "But I can't help it. I trained that boy since he was eight years old. He…he's like the son I never had."

Yoda nodded gravely. "Recognize your connection with him, I do. But allow it to cloud your mind, you must not. Duty to perform he has, and we do. No good it does to worry over that which you cannot change."

"Of course, Master," Obi-Wan said with a bow.

Yoda gave a "hmph" and moved slowly off, walking through a set of blast doors towards the personal quarters, and Obi-Wan was alone once again.

Obi-Wan reached out again, tapping the vast pool of the Force that expanded across the known galaxy, searching for Anakin. The young Jedi was still missing, the _Resolute _yet to return from its mission, which had been another reason for Obi-Wan's depression. He hadn't sensed the young Jedi's death, but every day that he was absent made that more and more of a possibility.

_Where are you? _He thought to the stars. _Where are you when we need you most?_

000

ONI _Paragon _(TFG-014)

En route Psi Olympus System

March 25th, 2593, 1243 hours (UNSC military calendar)

The knife spun through the air, its black-tinted, laser-sharpened-to-the-molecule blade parting the air with a quiet whistle. As it reached the apex of its arc and began to descend, a black-gauntleted hand snatched it out of the air. With a flick of the wrist, the blade was spinning and twirling once again, the blade blurring together in a terrifying display as the wielder flipped it from hand to hand, behind their back and around their arms. The hum of the blade passing through the air became a steady thrum, the carbon-fiber/steel blade etching elegant patterns as it flipped back and forth-

"Yo, Matt, chill. There's nobody here to impress."

Petty Officer Second Class Matthias-D105 snatched the knife out of the air, his arm moving almost too fast to follow as it reclaimed the weapon.

"Wasn't trying to impress anyone," Matthias deadpanned in response, focusing his gaze on the speaker, Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-D142.

Isaac shrugged. "Just sayin'. You freak me out the way you spin that thing; try not to cut yourself."

Matthias snorted, standing up, letting his gaze sweep across the others in the room. Five other Spartan-IV supersoldiers strewn across the bunks in the room, reading, cleaning weapons, or sleeping. All of them his squadmates, men and women he had trained with since the age of four on November Team. First was Petty Officer First Class Katrina-D089, squad leader and excellent strategist. Right now she sat at a desk, reading over their deployment orders on a computer, auburn hair trimmed exactly to regulation length and eyes that were chips of emeralds.

Petty Officer Third Class Takedama-D122 was sitting on the side of his bed, reading from some old book that Matthias's genetically-enhanced vision allowed him to see was "The Grapes of Wrath". How Takedama had managed to procure an actual paper copy of a book was beyond him, but November Team's tech specialist and occasional medic always seemed to have a surprise up his sleeve.

Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-D142, the earlier speaker, was lounging against one of the bulkheads, playing what appeared to be a game of solitaire on a holotable in front of him. Heavily built, with a dark complexion and hair, Isaac was November's assault and heavy weapons specialist. A bit mouthy and a little rebellious, but when the chips were down, he was as reliable as anyone.

Sleeping on one of the bunks was Petty Officer Second Class Laura-D065. Brunette, lively, and a bit of a joker, she was the squad's jack-of-all-trades, and effectively second-in-command.

Propped up against one of the walls was Petty Officer Third Class Amir-D243, his hooded eyes half-open in that curious way of sleeping he had that made it hard to tell if he was awake or asleep. Of vaguely Middle-Eastern/Kazakh descent, Amir was probably the least talkative of the team. He seemed a bit of a loner, but was an excellent driver and pilot. If had wings or wheels and some form of propulsion, he could drive it, and quiet effectively.

And finally, him. Petty Officer Second Class Matthias-D105. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, sniper and recon specialist. Together, they made up November Team, one of the fifty six-man teams that made up the three-hundred-man Spartan-IV project.

The Spartans were a legendary outfit within the UNSC military; ONI's crown jewel. Naval Special Warfare's most effective soldiers. During the Covenant War, they were humanity's last and best hope against the Covenant onslaught.

Ironically, their success had put ONI in a bit of a predicament after the war's close. The Spartans had become the face of humanity's fight for survival, and as such, many civilians were demanding that more Spartans be produced, ignorant of what had really gone into the making of the supersoldiers. Naturally, the revealing of the uncomfortable fact that there were very few left would have put quite a crimp in morale. However, the moral justifications behind the SPARTAN II and III programs had been, to put it generously, a little shaky, and many within the higher rankings of the military were calling for the program to be disbanded. Thus, the Beta-5 Division of the Orion Project, the super-secret ONI cell that had created the SPARTAN-II program, was forced with the choice of either shutting down the operation entirely and forfeiting humanity's best hope, or creating more Spartans at the risk of the public discovering the true nature of humanity's greatest warriors.

However, if there was one thing ONI was, it was belligerent. And once it had seen one of its projects achieve as much success as the SPARTAN program had, there was no way it was going to let go. It was nearly unilaterally-agreed upon that a SPARTAN-IV Project would be launched, with the goal of creating a first class of three hundred Spartans by 2585. The first candidates, painstakingly genetically screened before birth for the genetic markers that were required for a person to become a Spartan, were secretly abducted from their families at the age of four, replaced by flash clones which, by the current year, lasted much longer than the faulty models used to replace the abducted Spartan-II candidates.

Not a single one of the Spartan-IV candidates knew they had been abducted; as soon as they were brought to Reach to begin their intensive training, they were effectively brainwashed. The way Matthias saw it, he had been born into the UNSC. If he tried hard enough, he could remember flashes of his family-the feel of his mother's hair, the tinkling laugh of his older sister-but when those thoughts came, he couldn't recognize them, dismissed them as some side-effect of cryo-sleep.

It was a cruel way to treat children, but it was necessary and effective. Their training had been brutal; often fatal. While medical technologies had advanced enough so that the IV-class did not suffer near the fatalities of their –III and –II predecessors during the genetic augmentation procedures, the training itself was often so arduous and simply brutal that many candidates died during it. Matthias remembered that training; remembered the dozen-mile long runs, the live-fire exercises, strategic drills, and physical conditioning. He remembered the screaming of the sadistic drill instructors, the way his muscles only a few minutes into the day but were never allowed to rest. That training was with him always, whenever he carried out a mission. As a child, Matthias had shown that he had a natural penchant for stealth and marksmanship, so he had naturally been inducted into the Recon-Marksman-Specialist school, trained and groomed by the mentors to become a recon specialist. In RMS school, he had been taught everything he needed to become a ghost in any environment, to kill from a distance with unerring accuracy and to kill up close with lethality and silence. He quickly became known as one of the most proficient recon operators in the class, and was assimilated into November Team after their previous recon specialist had died in a fall during a field exercise on the side of a mountain. In November, his training reasserted itself, allowing him to become the team's eyes and ears during their combat drills, infiltrating and spying on enemy camps The training that had once nearly killed him became that which kept him alive.

The goals of the –IV project had been met, and by 2585, the first class of three hundred Spartan-IVs were active, a second class being trained. Matthias had graduated with the rest of the first class, gotten in on the tail end of the Pacification War, and cut his teeth on combat against the remnants of the Covenant Loyalists.

What they were facing now was something far different.

The Outsiders were something strange, something new, and Matthias wasn't quite sure how to handle them. His training had been relatively black and white; there were friendlies and there were enemies, and it was his job to kill as many enemies as possible while making sure he kept as many friendlies alive as he could. The Outsiders, however, did not fit into his little conceptualized boxes; they were not officially recognized as either an ally or an enemy. Personally, Matthias didn't think that it was a good idea to deploy a Spartan team to such a grey area, but HIGHCOM had insisted that at least one team of supersoldiers be present for the negotiations, and Matthias did understand the value of Spartans both for psychological impact and for security. Either way, however, it was not his place to question orders.

Matthias felt an annoying itch in the small of his back and resisted the urge to scratch it loudly. Likely cryo rash; November Team had been put in cryostasis for the trip to New Arcadia, and had only gotten out an hour previously.

"I'm going to the gym," he announced curtly, and exited the room, stepping into the narrow corridors of the ONI _Paragon_.

The _Paragon _was one of the many tools created in the military for the aid of the Spartan Program. It was part of a class of ships specifically designed for the transportation of small operational teams of Spartan supersoldiers; the _Thermopylae_-class frigate. Created and manned by the Office of Naval Intelligence, the _Thermopylae_-class ships were conceptualized with the idea of combing the speed of a corvette, the stealth abilities of prowlers, and the combat abilities of a frigate, all to provide Spartan teams with a ship specifically tailored to their deployments. The result was a ship that looked extremely strange, with the general shape and weapons of a frigate, the ablative stealth coating and electronic countermeasures of a prowler, and engines with the proportional power of the legendarily speedy _Mako_-class corvettes.

Another perk of their design, Matthias thought as he walked into the amidships gym and headed straight for the shoulder press, was that their weight rooms were tailored specifically to Spartans, meaning that their equipment was fitted with a much larger selection of weights and faster speeds that normally considered humanly possible.

Ignoring the stares of a pair of off-duty naval crewmen that were over by the bench press (even out of armor, a typical Spartan was still an imposing figure, standing nearly seven feet tall and weighing at about two hundred and eighty pounds), Matthias set the shoulder press to its max-about six hundred and fifty pounds-and began to crank out his first set of twenty repetitions.

Five sets of twenty should do, he figured as he started. He didn't want to go too overboard before a deployment.

The weights rose and fell at regular intervals as Matthias drew breath in and out, pumping his muscles. At about fifteen, he began to feel a slight burn, but it was only five more until the set was finished. He cranked them out, massaged his back for a moment to assuage a slightly sore muscle, and then started back in on his second set after a brief five-second rest, not even breathing heavily.

**A/N: Thought it was about time for some Spartans to be introduced into the story, so I let you with that little tidbit. Sorry that this was shorter than usual; I'm gearing up for the next few chapters, which will likely be doozies to write. Also, to those anxious for more action (cough cough Sharnorasian Empire), be patient. Explosions will be coming soon.**


	9. Revelations and Hostilities

Chapter IX

**A/N: The Project: BLACKWING mentioned in this story, sorry to say, has nothing to do with Death Troopers. I didn't even know what that was until I saw it in a review and Googled it to find out. The name resemblance is purely coincidental. Sorry to disappoint.**

**Anyways, let the explosions begin! **

**Well, not immediately. First, let's get a nice taste of why I love writing characters from the Office of Naval Intelligence…**

ONI _Cloak and Dagger _(PRW-43)

Near White Crab Nebula, Psi Olympus System

March 30th, 2593, 0243 hours (UNSC military calendar)

The White Crab Nebula was one of the most beautiful natural phenomena of space, and that was quite a title, given the massive numbers of such nebulas throughout the galaxy. Still relatively young for such a nebula, the White Crab Nebula was named obviously for its shape, which resembled the claw of a crab, as well as the swirling white-grey clouds of dust that collected there, swirling and merging to create quite a breathtaking sight. In fact, many a tourist agency on New Arcadia collected quite the haul on passenger liner tours out to the nebula.

Now, however, no oblong passenger liners or tour ships cut through the void around the nebula. All civilian travel in the Psi Olympus system had been suspended in wake of current events, and all military vessels in-system were concentrated around New Arcadia. The space around the White Crab Nebula was therefore, empty, in quite a twist of irony.

Well, note completely empty. Although, for how well-disguised the sole occupant of the space within a half-million kilometers of the nebula was, it may as well have been.

Insignificant in the vastness of space, a small black form seemed to ghost across part of the nebula, a tiny segment of the brilliant white/grey clouds obscured for a moment by a shadow that flitted into existence and then was gone the next, as if it had never been there.

Which was exactly what an ONI Prowler-class stealth corvette was designed to do.

Covered in matte black ablative stealth and texture buffers from stem to stern, the 162-meter length of the ONI _Cloak and Dagger _was practically invisible to the naked eye. It was also invisible to electronic ones; equipped with ablative engine baffles and electronic counter-measures, the _Cloak and Dagger _was an electronic ghost. Its experimental X-ELF radar allowed it to detect incoming ships from incredible distances, and there was no better ship in the galaxy when it came to reconnaissance and observation.

But that, thought Captain Nathaniel Ferguson, onboard the _Cloak and Dagger_'s bridge, was where its advantages ended. Prowlers had only one defense, and that was their invisibility. While most UNSC ships were now equipped with energy-shielding systems courtesy of the Covenant Separatists, putting a shield system on a prowler compromised its counter-electronic systems for some complicated reason that Ferguson suspected he would need sixteen years of college and several Ph.D's to understand. If the _Cloak and Dagger_'s cloak of invisibility were to be pierced, it would be defenseless. Covered in only a minimal thirty centimeters of titanium, incredibly slow, and with virtually no offensive weapons systems, a prowler would last as long in combat with a ship of the line as a moth in a flame.

Ferguson sighed. He would have liked to have laid some of the _Cloak and Dagger_'s payload of HORNET nuclear mines as a fallback measure, but his orders from command had been very strict; he was not to engage any enemy fleet under any circumstances. The _Cloak and Dagger _was there to observe and report when any Imperial ships appeared in-system, and then to allow a Smart AI given to it by an ONI officer to transfer into one of the ships' computer systems in move called Operation: ARCHDUKE FERDINAND.

It would be tricky, transferring enough of an AI into a ship's databases without a direct link, but Ferguson was confident that his operations officer and the new experimental X-CRIER signal dish the _Cloak and Dagger _was equipped with could accomplish the job.

Ferguson was just about to retiree to his personal quarters when a squawking alarm suddenly rang out from the sensors station.

"Captain!" the sensors officer called. "My board is hot! HSOS has detected multiple bogeys inbound near the nebula."

_Clever, _Ferguson thought. They were using the nebula's swirling clouds of gas and dust to disguise their entrance to the rest of the system.

"How many?" he asked swiveling his chair.

The sensors officer swallowed, stammering before answering. "Um…seventy-two. Sir."

Ferguson blinked. Seventy-two vessels? The UNSC/Separatist fleet in-system numbered only twenty-four ships and three ODPs.

"ETA?" he asked shakily.

"Approximately ten minutes," the sensors officer replied.

Not very long. Enough time for the _Cloak and Dagger _to send a quick FTL message to the Allied ships at New Arcadia and then engage its own stealth countermeasures to wait for the opportune moment.

Ferguson turned to the operations officer, who doubled as his XO. "We're going dark," he said. "Lock ablative baffles and execute electronic countermeasures."

"Sir," his XO replied quickly, and Ferguson swiveled to the communications officer. "Send an FTL message to Admiral Hawkins and another automated one to ONI HQ on Reach." Even with FTL communications, however, the message would still take time to make it all the way to Reach, nearly six sectors away. By the time the rest of the UNSC knew there was an incoming fleet, the Empire would already be here.

Which was exactly what Ferguson wanted.

"Holmes," he said. "Transfer yourself into the X-CRIER system, and prepare for deployment."

A hologram materialized on the bridge holotank of a man clad in a tan trenchcoat, with a slightly-wrinkled fedora and a scruffy holographic beard.

"Finally," the fifth-generation Smart AI muttered to himself. "I've been idle for the past ten minutes. You know that rechecking the reactor floats over and over isn't exactly the most engaging activity for an AI with processing power of my level. I-"

"Yeah, yeah, too bad, so sad," Ferguson said. "Just get ready to transfer yourself. You'll get to do all the hacking you want in a few minutes."

"Fine," Holmes sighed heavily, but that seemed to placate him.

It was only a short while later that the sensors officer swiveled back around again. "Contacts are incoming in ten seconds!"

Ferguson said a brief prayer and clasped his fingers around the armrests of his chair, staring out the bridge window.

He knew that the Outsiders used a different method of FTL travel, but he had yet to see a "hyperspace" exit.

It was strange for someone accustomed to seeing the bubbling portal of Slipspace; instead, there seemed to be a quick flash of movement and then the ships seemed to _stretch _into being before collapsing back to their normal state.

Ferguson sucked in a breath at the sight of the massive armada; dozens of ships, all in perfect formation, activated their sublight engines, their arrowhead-like shapes cutting through the void with inexorable precision.

"Initiate the CRIER system," Ferguson whispered, as if afraid that the Imperial ships would somehow hear him.

"Yes, sir," the operational officer replied, turning back to his consoles. A few chattering lines of code later, he swiveled back around. "Transfer is under way, sir. We've selected one of the smaller enemy ships-I believe the Outsiders called it a Nebulon-B class frigate-to transfer to."

"Good, good," Ferguson said distractedly, waving his hand. "Just tell me when-"

"Transfer reported successfully," the XO interrupted. "Sir."

Ferguson stopped, his mouth forming a small, surprised "o". "Alright, then. Proceed to rendezvous point Epsilon-Five-Five at best speed. If we make it back in time, we might be able to give a little help."

000

_Simpletons, _thought Holmes as his spike wedge slipped effortlessly through the Imperial frigate's rudimentary electronic warfare suite. After years of hacking into Covenant systems, as easy as that was, he had hoped that these humans might provide a bit more of a challenge. Unfortunately not, it appeared, as once he had set a few Trojans for the Imperial ship's security programs to chase around and then boxed them into their own processing matrices with an endless loop of repeating code, Holmes effectively had control of the entire ship, and none of the crew knew.

Holmes checked his internal chronometer; .00034 seconds to take control of an entire warship.

He was getting rusty; several days of not being able to hack anything had slowed his records by several milliseconds.

Not that it really mattered, of course; the entire frigate was still under his control. And once the Imperial fleet confronted the UNSC/Separatist Allied battlegroup, he would follow his orders and fire upon a UNSC ship, thus making it appear as if the Imperials had started the war.

A brief impulse rushed through his ethics subroutine, demanding that he stop and rethink his actions; if he followed through on this, deliberately murdering UNSC sailors in order to start a war, he could be responsible for the deaths of billions.

As soon as if had come, however, a harsh command from his logic matrix shut down his "conscience" with the response that the Empire was not here to negotiate anyways, not by what the Outsiders had said. The Empire would be more than willing to start the war if he did not.

And, after all, he had his orders. ONI was always looking out for the greater good of humanity.

000

Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System

Olympic Tower, New Alexandria, Eposz

March 30th, 2593, 1782 hours (Local time)

The briefing room was empty, the lights darkened. A few folders lay scattered over the surface of the wooden table that dominated the center, papers oozing out of their confines, and several empty white Styrofoam coffee cups stood like sentinels over the bleak oak.

A single figure remained in the room. Vice Admiral Lord Alexander Lancaster, Marshal of the Fleets and director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, stood with his hands folded in front of a window on the 176th floor of the Olympic Tower, ONI's headquarters and arguably the most secure structure in the known galaxy. This high up, he could see the entire supercity of New Alexandria, recently rebuilt after its destruction along with the rest of Reach during the final years of the Covenant War, stretched out below, a forest of glittering steel skyscrapers vaulting kilometers into the air with forests of blinking antennae on top. It was an awe-inspiring sight, the massive economic engine that was the city, but today, Lancaster's mind was not distracted by such trivial things like a city of millions. No, his mind was sectors away, on a small planet that hardly anyone had known the name of until about a week ago, but was now the focus of what could easily spiral into another war.

Lancaster gave a sigh, rubbing his forehead as he stared out the window, blind to the grandeur of the city around him as he contemplated his decisions. It was early spring here on Reach, and a light rain had begun this day, the water splattering against the tempered glass window and insubstantial clouds floating in to cover the city, the occasional skyscraper peeking above them like a rock column in a sea of grey.

Perhaps it was an omen, he thought. Perhaps this was a warning about what would come if he went through with the decision he had made.

No public statements had been made, no official position announced, nor even a vote taken in the Colonial Congress, but the Office of Naval Intelligence had already made its decision. Secretly, of course, but, nonetheless made. ONI had thrown in its lot with the Outsiders, and that was what was bothering the normally witty Brit.

For all the post-war castration it had undergone, the Office of Naval Intelligence still retained a great deal of power, both that assigned to it in its charter and political weight. As the director, Lancaster knew the bounds of that power more than anyone, and with the Outsiders had come a chance to answer one of the few questions that ONI's power could not answer, the question that had stumped them since it was first posed in the early 2500s.

Which was why in the past few hours, one of the most influential meetings that would never be declassified had taken place among the top minds of ONI, and a decision made that would change the fate of the galaxy forever.

To answer the Question, ONI was prepared to start another war.

Lancaster shuffled his feet, the immaculately-polished black dress shoes gliding over the dark blue carpet. He shouldn't be having such a guilt trip about this, he told himself. In his twenty-odd years as Director of ONI, he had issued countless assassination orders, commissioned dozens of black operations that would never see the light of day. By his hand, directly or indirectly, he could be sure that thousands lay dead, both alien and human.

It had never bothered him before. But today, for some reason, the oncoming rainstorm that was slowly encompassing New Alexandria seemed to appear as a massive wall of doubt.

They still didn't know completely what they were getting into, but the decision had been made that if the Question was to be answered, the Outsiders must be preserved. If a fleet from the "Galactic Empire" arrived to seize the Outsiders, Lancaster had issued the order that an ONI smart AI was to hack into the weapons system of one of the Imperial ships and fire upon the UNSC fleet above New Arcadia. Thus, it would appear as if the Empire started the war, and ONI's secrets would remain hidden from the public for another hundred years. And maybe, with the introduction of this "Admiral Yularen", the Question could finally be answered.

ONI was willing to start a war that by its end would leave billions dead, all for the sake of finally solving the mystery behind Project: BLACKWING.

Lancaster snorted at the thought. Project: BLACKWING was perhaps the most highly-classified project ever to exist. The United States of America's Phoenix Program, the Friedens' attempts to develop a laser superweapon during the Interplanetary War; all of them paled in comparison to how highly classified Project: BLACKWING was. It was ONI's darkest secret, more damning even than the Spartan Program should details of that get released. Not even the President of the UEG knew what it was, and nor had any before.

The number of people that knew of BLACKWING outside of the personnel that actually worked on it could be counted on one hand. And those people had just met inside this room.

Feeling old beyond his years, the weight of a decision that would affect trillions resting on his shoulders, Lancaster slowly walked back over to the table, pulling back one of the chairs and taking a seat.

"Templar?" he asked. "You still here?"

A holoprojector in the middle of the table abruptly sputtered to life, spitting up an image of a thirteenth-century Crusader knight, dressed in a suit of chainmail. A rectangular helmet sat upon his head, and he rested a broadsword over his shoulder and bore a shield on his left arm. Both the shield and the hauberk he wore over the chainmail bore a red cross on them.

"I'm always here, admiral," he said in a gravelly voice.

Lancaster sighed, leaning back in the chair. "Access file B0001 and send it to my spectacles, will you?" he said, referring to the screen on his glasses that could open and read data files.

Templar didn't move.

"Oh, right," Lancaster said. "The code. Alpha-Fermion-Twelve-slash-R-J-ninety-two."

"Confirmed, sir," Templar said. "I'm sending you the file now."

"Thanks," Lancaster said.

Templar was one of three specialized Smart AIs, known as the Triumvirate, designed specifically to hold allegiance only to the Office of Naval Intelligence and to guard the information of File B0001 with religious zealotry, which was a job they did excellently. The best hacker in the universe couldn't slip past those AIs, and likely not even the legendary smart AI Cortana, long lost along with SPARTAN-117, could bypass their security. Templar was the head of the Triumvirate, a sort of custodian of the most valuable electronic data the Office had in its possession.

A flashing "file available" sign appeared in the upper-right screen of Lancaster's glasses, and with two rapid blinks, he opened it, read the mandatory security warning, and proceeded straight into the relevant data.

_Warning: This file is classified under Ultra-level security. Any person caught tampering with or attempting to steal or release this file shall be executed immediately under Section 18.2.A1 of the Naval Intelligence Security Act of 2564._

_Project: BLACKWING_

_First appearance of BLACKWING-positive child (Subject Zero): 1/13/2510 (also first appearance of genetic marker deoxyribothesbulin)_

_Project Initiation date: 4/20/2515_

_Locations: Area 49, Reach, ONI-restricted land/Area 50, New Symphony, ONI-restricted land/ Area 51, Earth, ONI-restricted land, Area 52, Harvest, ONI-restricted land_

_Project size as of [3/29/2593]: 5,435 subjects_

_Project growth rate (average subjects added per year): Approx. 69.67 _

_Incidence of BLACKWING-positive offspring (per 100,000 children born): Approx. 2.389_

_Increasing incidence of BLACKWING-positive offspring: Approx. 4.7% per Earth Standard Year_

_Criteria for BLACKWING-positive offspring: _

_ -Possession of deoxyribothesbulin genetic marker_

_ -Incredibly high percentage of neurological activity in insular cortex (Approx.. 500x average brainwave activity)_

_ - apparent telekinetic abilities as recorded and documented in (File-BW98) _

_ -other unexplainable attributes, such as sensing of emotions, mind-reading, and increased physical abilities_

The file went on and on, but Lancaster had read it many times before, knew what it said and knew that the Question still remained: just how did some members of the human population suddenly appear around the 26th century to have inherited strange, almost superhuman abilities?

Lancaster sighed, closing the file. He knew that with this Admiral Yularen having agreed to lend his knowledge to the Project, they could be nearing an epiphany, but he was still leery of all of it.

Especially leery of what the public would think if word of this ever got out.

It had all started on January 13th of the year 2510. On the world of Isla Pacem, a child had been born, a young boy that had been named Matthew Seward Garfield, but was now known to those in Project: BLACKWING as Subject Zero. While Matthew had seemed a normal boy, one thing had shocked hospital staff when he was born; Matthew appeared to possess a type of mutated human DNA which had been dubbed deoxyribothesbulin, which had an additional two nitrogen bases, inosin and hypoxthanine.

That had been a massive shock to the scientific community, as such an event was thought impossible. The boy became an instant celebrity, but after a few years of frenzied scientific and journalistic attention, the craze died down when it appeared that the boy was completely normal in every other respect, and no further children whose genome contained dexoyribothesbulin were born in the next five years. The best explanation the scientific community could come up with was that the boy was simply a very anomalous anomaly, and no further thought was given to it.

However, several years later, when Matthew was about eleven years old, reports began to filter out from the small town he was living in that the boy appeared to be capable of doing incredible things, ranging from leaping high into the air to moving objects with what seemed to be the concentration of his mind. At fifteen, rumors of Matthew's abilities had spread, and people were coming from far and wide to watch the young magician.

One of those that came to watch was an officer from ONI, who carefully recorded everything he saw. The consequences of such an ability were grave; people might begin to ask why Matthew was like this, and why they were not. It was a dangerously slippery slope, one that could easily drag the human race down into chaos.

That same year, contact with the alien conglomerate known as the Covenant was announced, and people were suddenly focused on their imminent survival as opposed to a quaint, strange magician boy's abilities.

It was the perfect opportunity for ONI to answer some questions, and see if they couldn't replicate Matthew's unique genome. Isla Pacem was an Outer Colony world that was one of the first to fall to the Covenant onslaught, and during the battle, ONI agents launched Project: BLACKWING and abducted Subject Zero, now aged fifteen, taking him away to Reach. There he was placed in complete quarantine and isolation while he was studied in an attempt to answer what soon became known as the Question.

While it quickly became apparent that Matthew's abilities-and the answer to the Question-appeared to be through some sort of strange energy field that he emitted, that brought the scientists no closer to determining what the cause was.

Over the next few decades, more and more BLACKWING-positive children began to be born (although still tiny amounts compared to the overall human population), leading ONI's scientists to believe that this was some sort of evolutionary mutation. However, with the abduction of Subject Zero, ONI was in for a penny, and now they were in for a pound. In order to keep public attention on the war and not on the strange children being born, ONI began to screen all children before birth in a seemingly innocent process that mirrored that used by the SPARTAN program but also detected deoxyribothesbulin, and abducting all children with the genetic markers into Project: BLACKWING, studying them and performing experiments to find the source of their power. By the midpoint of the war in 2539, the Project had grown to encompass some twenty-five hundred subjects, and ONI was still no closer to finding the answer to the Question, something that irked them to no end. The idea was floated around to train the children as telekinetic warriors and unleash them against the Covenant, but the idea was dismissed as being too risky as well as "too sci-fi".

And so, the Project continued, growing ever stronger. ONI began to set aside specific restricted land areas for the containment of the children, many of whom were kept oblivious to what was going on in the outside world.

It was arguably the greatest silencing operation ever carried out in the history of man. Understandably, it was also known that there would be hell to pay if word ever got out, which was why other than project staff, only four people in ONI knew of its existence, counting himself. Project: BLACKWING was the most well-kept secret that ONI had ever known, and now, with the information that Admiral Yularen may be able to provide, the Question could finally be answered, and the Project could be quietly done away with, the subjects trained as possible "Jedi", as the Outsiders called them.

It was a choice balanced on a knife's edge, one that could either reap great bounty or bring ruin to the plans they had worked nearly a century to build.

"Admiral," Templar said, suddenly rematerializing on the table. "Priority message for you, rerouted through FLEETCOM."

Lancaster frowned quizzically, rising to his feet. "Put it over my specs."

A second later, the message appeared over his glasses' screen.

_From ONI _Cloak and _Dagger (PRW-43)_

_Alert: Unidentified fleet of seventy-two starships exited FTL into the Psi Olympus System at 0256 hours the morning of March 30__th__ (UNSC military calendar) Operation: ARCHDUKE FERDINAND initiated successfully. Request reinforcements ASAP._

Lancaster's jaw dropped. The Empire was here already? They weren't supposed to arrive for another few weeks, and the next UNSC/Separatist battlegroup inbound to Psi Olympus-Battlegroup Marne-was still three days out.

And seventy-two ships? That was a massive fleet; the Outsiders must have really done something to get the Empire that pissed off.

But it didn't matter now; with the initiation of Operation: ARCHDUKE FERDINAND, the war was as well as started. Lancaster could only hope that its first battle would turn out as well as he had planned, and go inform the President that they were about to be at war.

000

Psi Olympus System, New Arcadia

UNSC _Ticonderoga _(DDE-442)

0322 hours, March 30th, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

Captain Hannah Farley sat in her command chair on the bridge of the _Ticonderoga, _trying to keep her breathing regular. From all outward perspective, she looked calm and in control, a mood she tried to convey to the rest of the bridge crew.

And something that was desperately needed when they were staring down the throats of seventy-two alien warships bearing down at them at full speed.

The Imperial ships had arrived in the space above New Arcadia only a short time ago, and already Hannah could see why the Outsiders so desired protection; all of the ships looked built for warfare, with sharp lines and massive arrowhead shapes. Many of them were over a kilometer and a half long, dwarfing all ships in the Allied fleet except for the _Antietam _and the _Inexorable_.

Hannah glanced at the large tactical holoscreen on the bridge that showed the relative locations of the Allied and Imperial ships, as well as New Arcadia and its moon Garrick. Admiral Hawkins had maneuvered the Allied ships to make the most of their limited numbers, grouping them together around the three Orbital Defense Platforms that were their best hope of warding off the Imperial attack. And as much as Hannah hated fighting with her back to a gravity well, in some situations, it was necessary. Admiral Hawkin's task force consisted of the _Antietam_, two _Nebulae_-class cruisers, three destroyers, and six frigates. Add that to Task Force Valley Forge and the Separatist task force, and you came to a grand total of twenty-four ships versus seventy-two.

It was a good thing she believed in quality over quantity.

"Status?" she asked, more out of desiring something to keep her mind occupied than an actual need to know.

"Both MAC cannons are holding steady at eighty percent charge, with a triple-standoff shell loaded in the number one cannon and a standard heavy in the number two, as you ordered," Lieutenant Kerensky grunted in response. "All CIWS batteries are active, and Barrett Missile pods A through E are armed."

"Shields are fully charged and reactor is at seventy percent," Lieutenant Baumgartner chimed in. "The Rapiers are all ready to launch at a moment's notice, too," she said, referring to the squadron of F-898 Rapier interceptors that the _Ticonderoga _carried because of its role as an escort destroyer.

"Good, good," Hannah said, her fingers dancing restlessly on the arm of her chair. This incessant waiting was killing her. She just wished the Imperials would hurry up and contact them and have their demands out already. Hawkins had linked all of the Allied ships' communications suites through the _Antietam _so that they could all listen to the conversation.

Hannah still hadn't received any official position, so she was slightly confused as to how this would go. Were they going to protect the Outsiders, or surrender them? Judging by the fact that Hawkins had ordered the Outsiders' cruiser to a well-protected position behind the Allied screen, it appeared that they were going to stick up for them.

Hannah swallowed nervously; it appeared more and more as if this was going to be the flashpoint that would start another war.

The Imperial fleet had halted about 500,000 kilometers away. For a moment, the two opposing fleets faced each other across the void in what appeared to be an interstellar staring contest, daring the other to flinch first.

It was the Imperials that finally broke the silence. A blue hologram stuttered to life on the _Ticonderoga_'s bridge, resolving into the form of an imperious-looking man with a rather large nose, dressed in a crisp black uniform.

"I am Admiral Kendal Ozzel of the Galactic Empire," Ozzel said, his tone arrogant and haughty, making Hannah want to punch the holographic admiral in the face. "It is known to us that you have in your shelter a deserter from our ranks; you shall release him to us immediately."

Hannah hid a smile; she suspected that diplomacy wasn't exactly Ozzel's strong point.

"I am Rear Admiral Jerod Hawkins of the UNSCDF Navy," was Hawkins' even response. "You are trespassing without permission in UNSC space, and are to withdraw immediately to a neutral system where we can discuss this."

Hannah raised an eyebrow; she didn't know if that had been his orders, but knowingly or not, Hawkins had just upped the ante considerably.

That didn't seem to go over well with Ozzel; his visage contorted into a vicious snarl before smoothing back to its normal arrogant pose. "I'm sorry, but that is out of the question. We are under orders from the Emperor to bring back the deserters dead or alive. Negotiations are not an option; either give us the deserters, and we will depart peaceably, or shelter them, and incur the wrath of the Empire."

Hannah swallowed. This meeting was degenerating quickly; conflict seemed to be an inevitability. Hakwins had just begun to formulate his response, and she was just about to order Gates to acquire the nearest Imperial ship as a target when Ramirez suddenly cried out. "Energy spike!" he called out. "Ma'am, the Imperials…they're…they're firing!"

"What?" Hannah yelled, leaning forward in her chair and staring out the bridge window.

In truth, Ramirez's statement was incorrect; it appeared that only one of the Imperial ships, a frigate, had fired, but it was more than enough.

A flurry of green lasers streaked across space, burning an emerald trail across the void and impacting upon the UNSC _Argus_, one of the corvettes under her command. Hannah watched in shock and grief as the tiny ship's shields flashed and then vanished under the barrage. A burst of lasers drilled through its armor, and the corvette broke apart in a brilliant explosion that marred the blackness of the void.

Chaos. There was no better word for what happened next. Ozzel appeared shocked, as if that had been unexpected, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Hannah dimly heard Hawkins yelling several colorful curses at the Imperial admiral before the connection was severed and Hawkins was giving the "green to engage" order.

Hannah felt a fiery anger run through her veins; she had known everyone on the _Argus_; its commander, Frederic Marconi, had been an upstanding officer, on the verge of a promotion.

And now he was gone, the fireball that had been his ship fading as it ran out of oxygen.

"Launch the Rapiers," she ordered. Klaxons began to blare as Gates brought the ship up to full combat alert, blast doors rumbling along their tracks to seal shut the ship compartments, and the bridge lighting lowered to a dull red. "Weapons, target the nearest Imperial ship, and fire at will. This is war!"

000

ISD _Imperium_

"What the kriff was that?" Ozzel fumed, and the holographic figure of Captain Arma Deliot, the captain of the Nebulon-class frigate that had fired, cringed in response. "I gave explicit orders not to engage until the signal!"

"I don't know what happened, sir," Deliot responded. "I didn't order that. Something malfunctioned, or-"

"Excuses!" Ozzel shrieked. "Incompetency! Do you have any idea what-?"

"Sir!" interrupted a voice, and Ozzel turned, furious that someone had interrupted his tirade, to see Captain Kehren Greydorm, his second-in-command, standing there in that ramrod-straight military fashion he had, hands folded neatly behind his immaculate uniform.

"Well, what is it?" he snapped impatiently.

Kehren resisted the urge to roll his eyes; an up-and-coming officer in the Imperial Navy, the _Imperium _had been his to command until Ozzel had showed up and taken control. In those few weeks, he had been decidedly unimpressed with the admiral (and how Ozzel had made it to that rank, Kehren couldn't guess). He was incompetent, naïve, prone to bloviating, and overall, a complete buffoon, likely one of those types that made it into the Navy based on how rich their parents were. And apparently that sentiment was shared by others; in the days before the fleet had jumped, Kehren had, to his shock, been contacted by the Emperor himself and told that if Ozzel's idiocy were to reach intolerable levels during the attempt to reclaim the _Resolute, _he was authorized to execute the buffoon himself and take overall command of Task Force Monolith.

But for now, the chain of command had to be obeyed.

"I think there's something a bit more important to think about now," Kehren said, jerking his head towards the bridge window.

"What?" Ozzel growled, stalking over to the window. "Oh."

The alien ships were all preparing to engage, scattering to take up attack positions. The three silver, graceful ships, including one that was nearly twice as long as the _Imperium_, had several red blots beginning to appear along lateral lines in their hull, and the grey, blocky ships appeared to be charging up another type of weapon. The three big space stations in back also appeared to be rotating to face the Imperial ships.

"Sir!" cried one of the sensors officers. "We're detecting massive electromagnetic spikes on the enemy space stations! They appear to be equipped with some type of railgun weapon."

"Railguns?" Ozzel laughed. "How quaint. Primitives in space." He smiled. "Ah, the irony is delightful."

Kehren wasn't sharing in his commander's optimism; he knew that slugthrowers, while undeniably primitive, could be incredibly effective, especially since Imperial shields were optimized to defend against energy blasts. And with something that big, they could do some serious inconvenience.

"Admiral," he said, "perhaps we should take evasi-"

Ozzel waved a hand carelessly. "Let them come," he said. "What's the worst they can do?"

"Enemy space stations are fir-!" the sensors officer began to announce.

He didn't finish the sentence; three gouts of flame bloomed from the tips of the massive guns on the platforms, and three 3,000 ton shells traveling at one-fourth the speed of light crossed the 750,000 kilometer distance between the fleets in milliseconds.

The first ship targeted was the very same Nebulon-class frigate that had inadvertently fired earlier; the yellow streak impacted on the nose of the vessel. The ship's shields flashed bright before vanishing, the shell breaking through easily and punching a neat hole from the frigate's bow to its stern. The frigate's hull bloomed outwards, and then a chain of explosions ripped it apart from the inside. Captain Deliot's hologram vanished in a buzz of static.

Kehren gasped in shock, but even more was yet to come. The other two shells each struck an Acclamator-class assault ship, punching through the shields as if they weren't even there. One of the Acclamators vanished in an explosion as the shell pierced its reactors, and the other was caught in a turn, the round passing through the amidships and continuing out the other side, its momentum not even slowed and leaving a gigantic hole in the Acclamator. The assault ship's engines died as it drifted off, and then, with the sickening sound of tearing metal broadcast over the _Imperium_'s speakers, broke in half, the bow and stern of the ship drifting off in separate directions.

"Fierfek," Ozzel swore softly, awed.

"Sir!" the sensors officer replied. "They're reloading!"

Seeing that Ozzel was too stunned to react, Kehren jumped into action. "All ships, retreat out of the range of the guns."

But even as the remainder of Task Force Monolith began a full-scale retreat, some of them was too slow. Two _Arquitens_-class light cruisers were obliterated in the blink of an eye, but the worst followed.

The Imperial II-class Star Destroyer _Vitriol _was straight out of the drive yards at Kuat, its hallways still gleaming new with the smell of lubricant and polish. Its hull was clean and unscarred, its crew fresh out of the Academy, and its weapons powerful enough to rival any ship in the galaxy.

All of that, however, did it absolutely no good when it was struck by a 3,000-ton ferric-tungsten shell traveling at one-fourth the speed of light that on impact imparted the kinetic energy equivalent to 51.6 gigatons of TNT.

It was a breathtaking sight, watching the incredibly-strong hull of a 1,600-meter-long warship _ripple _like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble before literally shatteringinto trillions of glittering shards.

Kehren was stunned, his mind incapable of fathoming how a projectile weapon could be so immensely destructive.

He had no time to feel relieved at the fact that they had made it out of the guns' range. "Sir!" another officer cried. "Enemy ships are closing!"

Kehren swore, looked to the tac screen, saw a light skirmish force of enemy ships approaching, six of the grey blocky ones and two of the sleek silvery ones.

_A preliminary force, to test our strength_, he thought.

"Engage."

**A/N: I've gotten into a bit of a roll here, so I hope to update again soon with a more in-depth space battle involving more ship-to-ship before moving on to the planetary invasion. Large battles and explosions will be a prominent theme in the next few chapters. **

**On Project: BLACKWING; I included it because of several reasons. One, it seems like just the devious type of thing that's right up ONI's ally. Two, and primarily, because many Halo/SW fics seems to gloss over how the Force relates to the UNSC, with some even having it not exist at all in the Halo universe. Personally, I felt that it would be better to introduce it to the UNSC at the turn of the 26****th**** century, when humanity's brains might have evolved enough to develop Force senses, since the SW universe has been around longer. Third, it makes sense that having people with telekinetic abilities randomly popping up would freak out the authorities, no?**

**Also, Apoc326, feel free to pick apart the techy section with Holmes all you like; I'm not that great at writing techno-speak, and would appreciate some advice. **


	10. Battle Royale

Chapter X

**A/N: Heyhey, so uh…yeah, I um…how 'bout them Yankees?  
>Alright; I'm sorry for the long wait between updates (looks around nervously), but this chapter took a LOT longer to write than I had been anticipating, what with finals and stuff. However, that being said, it's also one of the longer and more action-packed ones, so I hope the tradeoff is worth it. The next chapter will also feature a lot of space action and hopefully the first stages of the ground invasion, if I feel up to it.<strong>

Psi Olympus System, New Arcadia

Emerald Haven, Illerean subcontinent

0345 hours, March 30th, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

"All civilians are to proceed to the nearest designated evacuation point. Repeat, all civilians proceed to the nearest designated evacuation point."

The blare of the loudspeakers was audible over the dull roar of the crowds, but just barely. The throngs of people crowding the Westhampton Bridge over the Perrel River that split the city of Emerald Haven in half likely knew what it was saying anyways, as the message had been playing every thirty seconds over the loudspeakers for the past few hour.

Lance Corporal Thomas Kilgore, 1st Squad, 1st Platoon, Delta Company, 175th Rangers Regiment, shifted position, switching his M55-A assault rifle from one hand to the other and flexing his wrist to get the blood flowing again before stepping back into position with the line of Rangers that stood along the side of the bridge, helping to move evacuating civilians across it and out of the Eastern District towards the evacuation points in the West.

"Whoah!" a voice suddenly said, and Isaac looked down to see a wide-eyed young boy of perhaps five years old staring at him in awe. "Are you a soldier?" he asked, pronouncing the word "so-jur".

Thomas opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it again. He wasn't exactly a people person, and didn't have much experience with kids. Most of them didn't bother him; the average Army Ranger, dressed in full black-grey-white urban ACUs and body armor with grey helmets and a gold visor, cut an imposing figure, and not one that most civilians were inclined to stop and talk to.

"Uh, yeah, kid," he finally said. He looked around, trying to pick out a parental figure among the swarms of people moving across the bridge. "Where's your parents?" he asked.

As if on cue, a voice rose above the roar of the crowd for a moment. "Jonathan! Jonathan! Oh, there you are, thank goodness!" A young woman pushed out of the crowd, with her husband nearby. She bustled over to him. "Were you bothering this fine young man? What have we told you about running away?" she said, and then turned to look up at Isaac. "I'm dreadfully sorry," she said, brushing a rogue strand of hair out of the toddler's eyes. "He can be a bit pestering sometimes."

"It's fine, ma'am," Thomas assured her. As the young woman collected her toddler and began to usher him away, Thomas cleared his throat. "Hey, kid. Catch."

Jonathan turned around, and Isaac depolarized his visor, allowing a glimpse at the human face underneath the grim helmet. He reached into a vest pocket and tossed the kid a loose cartridge. Jonathan caught it with a look of amazement, and as his mother pulled him along, Isaac heard the kid's voice, "Thanks, mister soldier!"

"Aw," teased a new, accented voice as Thomas resumed his position. "Wooks wike wittle Isaac found himsewf a fwiend."

"Ah, shut up, Felty," Thomas muttered, readjusting his assault rifle's sling.

Next to him, Private Giancamo Feltrinelli, affectionately referred to as "Felty" by the squad, laughed. "You're just such a friendly person by nature."

Thomas smirked and was about to respond when the gruff tones of their squad leader, Sergeant Antonio Vasquez, broke over their Command Network Module interface. "Put a lid on it," he said. "We're overseeing an evacuation, not a Sunday parade."

"Yes, sir!" Thomas and Feltrinelli responded automatically, straightening up and returning their M55s to relaxed port arms.

"All civilians are to proceed to the nearest designated evacuation point. Repeat; all civilians are to proceed to the nearest designated evacuation point."

Thomas blew out a breath, the inside of his allegedly fog-proof visor misting slightly before it faded. This whole thing seemed so surreal; as a child of a war veteran, Isaac had realized the danger posed by extraterrestrial races, but he had never expected to become swept up in another war, and with a human enemy, nonetheless.

The 175th Rangers had been enjoying some R&R in Emerald Haven when the news came that hostile Outsider forces had arrived, and that the planet was to be evacuated. The 175th immediately became assigned to the rather dull, if necessary, duty of assisting with the evacuation across the Westhampton Bridge, one of several spans that crossed the river from the principally residential areas of the Eastern City towards the financial, governmental, and transportation centers of the West. Once in the Western District, the civilians could be airlifted out of the city, or shipped up the orbital space elevator to the Garnet Spaceport. Similar evacuations were taking place all over New Arcadia as UNSC ground forces prepared for the imminent invasion.

As if to accentuate that point, the semi-organized mob of civilians crossing the bridge abruptly split apart to allow a convoy of Warthog FAVs and M-122 Badger APCs to roll through, transporting several platoons of UNSC Army troopers towards the 31st Division's positions near the outskirts of the Eastern District. Positions that the 175th Rangers was likely to be joining as soon as their part in the evacuation was finished, and the Colonial Guard units were fully mobilized to take over the operation.

Thomas fidgeted with the stock of his rifle, running his hands over the smooth black carbon-fiber composite. The M55 Modular Individual Weapons System, model A, was the standard-issue assault rifle for UNSC troops across all branches of service after the MIWS was adopted as standard in 2585. Consisting of six different variants, the MIWS had been introduced with the idea of centralizing and streamlining the current UNSC arsenal, which had undergone many changes during the Human-Covenant War. The "A" variant with which Thomas was currently equipped served as the "vanilla" model of the MIWS, but that didn't make it any less effective.

With a profile similar to that of the former BR55 battle rifle and a smooth black finish, the M55-A was a very sexy weapon.

It was also very deadly.

The weapon was chambered in 7.62x51mm, but capable of taking several different types of round, from tracer to incendiary to "mercy" slugs. It fired in single or full-auto from a forty-round magazine, and was equipped with a 3.5x ACOG A2 scope that was able to interface completely with a soldier's HUD. One of the MIWS's project goals was also to produce a weapon of superior accuracy, to better target insurgents among crowds of civilians, which it had been assumed would be humanity's chief enemy while it recovered. That famed accuracy had carried over into production; in the hands of an experienced operator such as a UNSC Army Ranger, the M55-A was accurate at distances of up to 1200 meters, if properly zeroed. Thomas himself had once personally gotten a three-inch grouping of six rounds at that distance during training.

Not only that, but it was also remarkably resilient, approaching the status of the near-legendary AK-47 in reliability. In his first introduction to the weapon during Basic Training, Thomas had watched in shock as the instructor had left the rifle fully immersed in a bucket of mud for five hours, then pulled it out, cleared the breach, and subsequently fired off an entire magazine without so much as a stutter.

"Hey, Corporal," called a voice, and Thomas looked up to see PFC Raymond Monton holding a pair of macrobinoculars. "Check it out. Looks like the Fleet's getting some action up in orbit."

Thomas glanced over at Vasquez, and the sergeant grunted his permission. Slinging his weapon, Thomas walked over and took the pair of glasses, aiming them up into the early-morning sky on the bearing Monton had indicated.

For a moment, he could see nothing, just the opaque blue-black of the dawn sky. Then, slowly, but increasing in regularity, flashes of color began to bloom in the sky.

The dull roar of the civilians vanished, and an almost deathly silence fell across the bridge. Some of the explosions were big enough to see with just the eye, orange-gold fireballs marring the sky before vanishing in an instant.

Thomas cranked the glasses up to their max enhancement, and was able to spot the indistinct forms of ships darting around in the sky above, trading fire as they wove through the void.

Thomas knew the fleet was outnumbered; he just hoped that they could hold for lone enough.

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga_ (DDE-442)

0343 hours, March 30th, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

The angular form of the UNSC _Ticonderoga _hurtled through the void, its Mark VI fusion engines propelling it at incredible speeds towards the Imperial task force as it led the wedge of five frigates behind it, with two Separatist frigate on either side of the task force. Hannah felt exhilarated, feeling as if at the head of a cavalry charge from centuries ago. And even though their orders were to only engage briefly and then withdraw, she wanted to make sure she put as deep of a wound as possible in the enemy force.

"Distance to enemy fleet has closed to 120,000 kilometers. Master 19 is within range," Gates reported, referring to the Acclamator-class assault ship the _Ticonderoga _had selected as its target.

"MAC cannons are fully charged," Kerensky reported.

Hannah was about to order to fire, but the Imperial ships fired first, waves of green lasers streaking across space towards the advancing Allied ships.

"Evasive maneuvers!" she yelled, and Gates responded, throwing the massive escort destroyer into a barrel roll that constantly brought fresh shields to meet the barrage of laserfire, the frigates behind copying the maneuver.

The turbolasers pounded into the ship, and Hannah felt it shudder beneath her. She thanked the Sangheili for the gift of energy shielding; had it not been for that, the _Ticonderoga _would likely be in little atomized pieces by now. As it was, the escort destroyer's shields took the worst of the punishment, burning brilliant silver before cooling down, the hull beneath undamaged.

"Shields to fifty-five percent!" Baumgartner said, her voice edged with worry.

Hannah glanced at the tac screen; a force of ten enemy ships had edged forward to engage the Allied forces, their deadly turbolaser batteries belching emerald fire across space.

"All forces, fire at will," Hannah said. "Take your shots and withdraw back to the Fleet."

The various frigate commanders gave their acknowledgement, and by then the battle had been joined.

The two Sangheili frigates, _Perseverance of Spirit _and _Indomitable Faith_, struck first, their blue pulse lasers burning across the void as their shields burned brilliant, absorbing Imperial lasers. Simultaneously, their lateral lines began to warm and heat, finally unleashing a pair of plasma torpedoes each at their respective targets.

Hannah smiled; she knew that the plasma torpedoes' homing abilities had given human commanders fits during the Great War; it would be interesting to see how the Imperials responded.

Apparently, just as she had predicted. Their shields already damaged by the pulse laser barrage, the Sangheili frigates' targets, a pair of _Arquitens_-class light cruisers, began evasive maneuvers.

They obviously hadn't expected the torpedoes to be able to execute a nearly-ninety degree turn to strike them, and Hannah would have given a month's worth of pay to see the expressions of the Imperial commanders when the torpedoes arced and struck them amidships, boiling through the hull and detonating inside, the two cruisers coming apart from within in brilliant fireballs.

Not to be outdone, the UNSC forces also fired, the five frigates firing on three different targets. MAC rounds streaked across space, hammering into the Imperial fleet and overloading shields with the massive impact of the super-dense projectiles. Seconds later, high-explosive Barrett missiles and secondary railgun turrets fired, tearing apart the unshielded ships.

"Target Master 19! Fire!" Hannah ordered.

A triple flash of light saturated the bow of the _Ticonderoga _as the Number-One MAC cannon fired. Three light skirmish shells weighing three hundred tons each flashed across the distance between the UNSC escort destroyer and its target Acclamator, skipping off the Acclamator's shields as they flashed successively brighter with each impact, admirably attempting to repel the massive force. A split-second later, the Number-Two MAC fired, this time sending a standard six-hundred ton heavy shell streaking inexorably towards the Imperial ship.

The MAC round punched through the weakened shields like a hot knife through butter, and proceeded to smash through the Acclamator's armor, boring through it and out the other side as atmosphere vented explosively through the destructive path of the projectile.

A mobility-kill, at least, as that ship would not be moving or returning to the fight anytime soon, but Hannah wanted the _Ticonderoga_'s first official combat sortie to be a full victory.

"Fire Barrett pods A through E," she said.

Gates and Kerensky both voiced their acknowledgement, and a second later, dozens of high-explosive missiles streaked away from the escort destroyer, etching white contrails across the void as they slammed into the crippled Acclamator, blasting apart armor plate and tearing the Imperial ship apart in a brilliant fireball.

Hannah allowed herself a grim smile at the victory, and several of the bridge crew even cheered, but she sobered up quickly as she realized that they were still grossly outnumbered.

She had accomplished her objective; a hard smack to the nose of the Imperials. Now it was time to withdraw before they recovered and sought revenge.

As quickly as they had advanced, the Allied ships spun around, their engine drives flaring as they withdrew. Hannah sighed with relief, but her relief was premature.

The frigate _Monmouth _had been a little too aggressive in its attack and a little too slow in its retreat. Even as its engines drove valiantly to catch up with the rest of the Allied task force, the Imperial ships seized the chance for revenge.

A hail of emerald lasers beat down the frigate's shields, melting through its titanium armor in seconds as the reactor went critical, a small sun erupting at the center of the UNSC ship.

Hannah felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. The average UNSC frigate had a crew of some two hundred sailors, and all of them vanished in an instant. In just a few hours, her command had suffered two losses.

"Ma'am?" asked Gates in concern, appearing on one of the pedestals. "Orders?"

"Continue the withdrawal," she whispered. She cleared her throat, strengthened her voice. She needed to appear strong in front of the crew. "Return to the fleet," she said. "We will have our revenge later."

ISD _Imperium _

Admiral Ozzel watched in impotent fury as the enemy ships raced away at sublight speed. They had just lost six additional ships, with only one confirmed casualty among the enemy. It was a failure that rankled him to no end, something that was easily displayed to the rest of the bridge crew as he ranted and paced back and forth. The Emperor had made it clear that the renegades were to be reclaimed as soon as possible, and every hour they were stymied was another hour that the Emperor's wrath grew.

Kehren hid a smile and tried his best not to shake his head at his commander's idiocy. As dire as the situation was, it was hard not to be amused by the older man's childlike antics.

Kehren turned his view to the void outside, to the vanishing sublight drives of the enemy ships. Once again, they had underestimated their enemy, and it had nearly been their undoing. Six ships was a light price to pay overall for such an oversight.

Of course, Kehren thought, there really wasn't much else that could have been done. The UNSC and alien forces had engaged first, and the Imperial response was the only logical one. That having been said, however, the deadly effectiveness of the UNSC's primitive slugthrower-railguns and ballistic missiles had been quite a shock. The two alien ships, however, had been the most shocking, firing lasers reminiscent of their own and some sort of homing torpedo that burned through armor like paper. Kehren noted that there were three of those ships among the enemy fleet, including one monster that spanned nearly three kilometers in length.

Those would definitely be the ones to go after first.

Of course, that was assuming they got the thorny little matter of those unstoppable space stations out of the way. Those three stations were the only things keeping the Imperial fleet from overrunning the small enemy force in orbit, but they appeared to far out-range anything the Imperials could muster.

Not to mention the fact that those massive shells they fired appeared capable of absolutely savaging any vessel that wandered into their path-

Wait. Kehren frowned as an idea struck him. Massive shells? Wandered into their path? He smiled as he realized that the guns' weakness.

Their projectiles, while undoubtedly devastating, were extremely large. As such, they were effective ship-killers, but against smaller enemies such as fighters or bombers, they would be practically useless. It would be like throwing a twenty-pound rock at a mosquito; you might hit it, but the odds were very slim.

Kehren placed a hand on Ozzel's shoulder, and the man's hysterical ravings stopped. "What?"

"I believe I've found a way to remove those stations from the equation," Kehren said diplomatically.

Ozzel froze. He had been puzzling over that very same problem for the past few minutes. "How?" he asked cautiously.

Kehren nodded his head out the window towards the stations. "Those cannons will wreak havoc upon any large ship that would advance, but a screen of fighters should be able to slip past them with relative ease and bomb the stations directly, or board them and destroy them from inside."

Ozzel blinked, wondering why he hadn't thought of that. "Of course," he said quietly, then spoke louder. "Of course," he said. "That was my idea all along. I was just, um, just thinking of which squadrons to deploy."

Kehren hid a smile once again. "Of course you were."

000

UNSC _Antietam _(BB-01)

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

0521 hours, March 30th, 2593

Admiral Jerod Hawkins, by all outward appearances, seemed calm. He stared out the bridge window of the massive _Pulsar_-class battleship _Antietam, _the flagship of the Allied fleet, his arms folded in front of him and an unreadable, impassive expression on his face.

Inside, however, he was far from calm.

The choice was, even with the relative success of the skirmish against the Imperials, they had the strength to continue the fight. The Allies simply did not have the numbers. Nukes were out of the option, since the EMP would burn out the superconducting coils on the ODPs, which were New Arcadia's only hope.

And while judging from the previous engagement, UNSC forces held the upper hand at long-range combat, the lasers that the Imperial ships boasted were no less deadly than MACs up close, and could be fired much faster with greater volume. And while the Covenant Separatist ships were likewise proficient in "close" combat, there were only three of them.

Not to mention the fact that out of the twenty-two remaining Allied ships, only seven of them, the _Antietam, _the _Inexorable_, the three _Magnetar-_class destroyers, and the two _Nebulae_-class cruisers _Hood _and _Bismarck_, were larger than frigate tonnage.

Not exactly the strongest force to be fighting off a numerically and perhaps technologically superior enemy for three days until Battlegroup Marne arrived.

The ONI prowler _Cloak and Dagger _had also arrived from doing who knows what at the system's edge, bringing with it an arsenal of 14 HORNET nuclear mines to add to the Allied fleet's already substantial nuclear capability, but those were to be weapons of last resort.

Hawkins also had the matter of the civilian evacuation to watch over; the Garnett Spaceport and the orbital elevators leading up to it had to be protected at all costs, which meant he had been forced to split his fleet, sending the _Hood_, the destroyer _Mediterranean_, and three frigates to defend it. There was also the matter of the Outsider starship, the _Resolute,_ which was in no condition to fight but required protection nonetheless. He currently had ordered its commander, Admiral Yularen, to hold position behind the line of the fleet, but it was a liability, a vulnerable package to baby-sit in a combat zone. His forces were spread thin, and a concentrated attack could easily break their lines.

The Orbital Defense Platforms were the only things standing between New Arcadia and annihilation. And that was where Hawkins had formed his line, to hold at all costs.

"Sir," the sensors officer said, his voice tinged with concern. "We're picking up multiple contacts, all across the board. Size estimates put them at fighter/bomber class and smaller."

Hawkins frowned. "Amount?"

The officer swallowed. "Hundreds, sir."

Hawkins' eyes went wide, and he went over to the threat board. Sure enough, swarms of red dots were pouring out of the Imperial ships, preparing to charge the Allied fleet in what appeared to be a fighter swarm tactic.

It had its merits; the ODPs could not target small craft such as fighters, and the First Battle of Earth had shown that the satellites were vulnerable to boarding.

The sheer amount of fighters was what had staggered him, however. While UNSC carriers and supercarriers were able to transports, as their name suggested, large amounts of single ships, most UNSC ships of the line carried at most three squadrons of single ships. The amount of Imperial fighters pouring onto the battlefield suggested that some of the larger Imperial ships carried up to _six _squadrons.

"Activate all CIWS batteries!" Hawkins bellowed as the Imperial ships raced in like a swarm of angered hornets. "All fighters engage, engage, engage! And keep those stations free of boarders!"

000

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

Near ODP S6/PS/NA-2 _Haven_

0526 hours, March 30th, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

"All Allied fighters, engage, engage, engage! Keep those boarding craft away from the stations!"

The words of Admiral Hawkins blared through the headset of Naval Flight Officer Mitchell Tyson, of the 211th VF 'Victorious Vanguard' Squadron. His palms sweating with anxiety, Mitchell swung his F-898 Rapier around to face the incoming tide of Imperial fighters. Most of them appeared to be large, multiple-winged classes that his tac computer identified as "ARC-170s". The thin line of UNSC Rapiers and Separatist Seraphs seemed hopeless in the face of the hundreds of incoming Imperial craft, so much so that his Rapier's electronic warfare suite had to strain to keep up with it.

While the venerable "Longsword" series of starships served as the UNSC's interceptors, capable of flying great distances and shooting down enemy ships from tremendous range, the F-898 Rapier was the primary UNSC starfighter, designed for dogfighting in close with enemy single ships. To that end it was well-equipped, with a slender, dagger-like profile and engines that for a ship its size were the most powerful ever mounted, it took the words "fast" and maneuverable" to an entirely different dimension.

But that was not to say it was without an effective weapons system. The Rapier sported a pair of 35mmcannons, and could carry nearly every type of missile serviced by the UNSC Navy. All of this and more was overseen by the craft's sophisticated EWS.

All of that and more was going to be needed to stem this advance, he felt. Tyson already knew that staying in formation with the rest of his squadron would be pointless. It was every man for himself.

The first swarm of Imperial starfighters crashed into the UNSC ships and ODPs like a wave breaking against seaside rocks. The Close-In Weapons Systems on the ODPS and capital ships opened fire, computer-controlled 50mm cannonfire and pinpoint-accurate point defense lasers from the Separatist ships swatted Imperial starfighters out of the sky, even as the second wave was already inbound, firing their laser cannons and sending streams of green lasers streaking across space.

The Seraphs and Rapiers dove in to engage, and the conflict quickly degenerated into what in fighter-jockey parlance was referred to as a "furball", or dozens of fighters packed into an area, tightly maneuvering around each other for a chance at a kill shot. Well, in this case, it was more like several furballs all around the ODPs. Shields flashed and winked out, ships dove and exploded as green Imperial and blue Covenant Separatist lasers lit up the void, while flashes of cannonfire and the ghostly exhaust trails of UNSC missiles added an ethereal effect to the battle.

An ARC-170 came screaming towards Mitchell's fighter like a demon, and its flurry of lasers washed over his Rapier's shields, draining them to forty percent. Mitchell swore and jerked the control stick roughly to starboard, sending his Rapier into a vicious barrel roll before bringing it back to his knees to spin around and drop in on the Imperial fighter's tail.

The Imperial pilot was good, however, and he dove away, skimming just over the surface of a nearby UNSC frigate, forcing Mitchell to break off the pursuit or risk running through friendly CIWS fire.

It was no great loss, however; there were more than enough targets to go around. An urgent tone warbled in his headset, warning him that another ARC-170 was trying to attain a torpedo lock on him. He juked rapidly to throw off the lock and then pulled the stick back to his chest, looping around to come towards the Imperial in a head to head pass, selecting guns.

The Imperial and he opened fire at exactly the same time, and in the end, it was likely the Rapier's thinner profile that saved him. His shields hissed and winked out under the barrage of green lasers, but the critical hit never came.

Mitchell's fire, however, was accurate. He pulled the trigger, a two-second burst of 35mm rounds shredding the ARC-170's shields and tearing it apart in a brilliant explosion.

Mitchell immediately dove away, allowing his shields to recharge even as another pair of ARC-170s dove in from above. He swore, juking madly right and left as streams of laserfire streaked past his cockpit.

He was in the process of ruing his decision not to have finalized his will before his deployment when he was saved by a Seraph. The Elite pilot swooped in from the side, heavy pulse laser cannons obliterating the Imperial fighters in an instant.

Mitchell let out a sigh of relief, making a mental note to find out whoever that Elite was and buy him a…well…whatever it was that Elites drank in place of beer.

Mitchell looped back into the fight when his squadron commander alerted him to a formation of Imperial V-Wing bombers heading towards one of the Orbital Defense Platforms. All local Allied forces immediately vectored to intercept, and Mitchell found himself at the head of an impromptu squadron of Rapiers and Seraphs as they bore down on the V-Wings and their ARC-170 escorts.

He activated the targeting computer for his ASGM-10 missiles, bringing up the targeting brackets and placing them on a V-Wing. The brackets flashed for a moment before turning red, and a solid tone came across his headsets, informing him of a solid missile lock.

Mitchell fired two missiles, twin vapor trails streaking away from his fighter. The rest of the Allied fighters fired as well, missiles etching trails across the void and pulse lasers burning through the darkness. Mitchell watched his missiles, saw the first one impact against a V-Wing's shield, overloading it and clearing the way for the second one. The V-Wing detonated in a spectacular fireball that briefly marred the darkness of space before it vanished.

The formation of V-wings came apart under the attack, but Mitchell had no time to breath any sighs of relief as the frantic combat continued unabated. One of the Rapiers on the port end of the formation vanished in a fireball as a group of ARC-170s swooped in, laser cannons blazing. A Seraph dipped out of formation, trailing purple flame from its engines, and Mitchell sent his Rapier into a trailing spin, singling out a single Imperial fighter to focus on.

The Imperial noticed, however, and began evasive maneuvers. Mitchell cursed, jerking the stick around to keep the Imperial in his sights. After a vicious double scissors maneuver, Mitchell finally got into a solid firing position above and to the right of the ARC-170, locking on and firing another pair of missiles, then watching in satisfaction as the Imperial fighter succumbed to them, exploding in a shower of debris.

The panicked voice of a local defense coordinator broke over Mitchell's COM. "This is the _Haven_," he said, sounding out of breath. "We have enemy boarding craft inbound!"

000

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

ODP S6/PS/NA-2 _Haven_

0534 hours, March 30th, 2593

Captain Aleksander Klimov, UNSC Marine Corps, stared at the tactical map of the _Haven _that hovered above a holotable on the station's bridge, his heavy brows beetled in concentration.

"If we place Fourth and Fifth platoons here, and here," he said in his thick accent, pointing to two separate locations at hallway junctions near the command bridge, "they can provide us with a fallback point should we be pushed back. I will take First Platoon to the starboard hangar bay and docking hallways, and Second Platoon under Lieutenant Ibanez will mirror my position in the port hangar bay. Third Platoon under Lieutenant Halifax will set up near the reactor to defend it from attack. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" came the reply from the platoon leaders standing around the table with him, the leaders of the company-sized element of Marines that was the _Haven_'s only protection from boarders.

Well, actually, they weren't its only protection, Klimov was reminded as something shifted to his right, and a deep voice growled. "And where am I to post?" asked Major Domo Tel'has Jarl'n, towering over the humans present.

Klimov smiled up at the massive red-armored alien, glad to have him on their side. "You can take your file on a continuous patrol around the station," he said, referring to the four other Minor Domo Sangheili warriors that he commanded, the only Separatist troops currently on the station. "Make sure no one gets through our defenses, and keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. I have a feeling your active camouflage will come in handy there."

Tel'has inclined his head and clicked his two upper mandibles in what Klimov knew was a gesture of respect. "You think well, human-warrior. My troops and I will do as you command. May your honor ever grow." He turned, the floor reverberating slightly with the impact of his footsteps as he walked away.

"Glad they're on our side," Lieutenant Ibanez muttered to herself.

Klimov smirked, found himself agreeing with his subordinate. "Now, then," he said, "to your positions."

Gamma-class assault shuttle I-241

En route _Haven _Station

Captain ST-7567, aka "Rex", First Platoon, Torrent Company, Imperial 501st Legion, checked his E-11 blaster rifle one last time, ejecting and examining the plasma gas cartridge. He held it up to the light, ensuring that there were no defects, before inserting back into the rifle with a satisfying _click_.

The Gamma-class assault shuttle carrying First Platoon of Torrent Company banked slightly as it headed into the combat zone, beginning to shake and rattle with the flak. All the soldiers inside, some thirty-eight battle-hardened stormtroopers, kept their calm. The Gamma-class assault shuttle was one of the sturdiest vessels ever constructed for its size, with over half of its power output devoted to shields, as compared to the standard quarter that most ships used.

And even if they were doomed, breaking down would do nothing to improve their situation. The thirty-eight soldiers of First Platoon understood that better than any others. Veterans of the Clone Wars and the Rise of the Empire, they were some of the most elite troopers in the galaxy, and had been under fire before. This wouldn't be their first hot insertion into a combat zone.

Even the unexpected formation of the Empire had not affected their fighting skills. Many soldiers would have balked or at least required some time of transition if the government they had been serving was suddenly replaced, and the people who had been leading them for the past few years were suddenly declared traitors to be hunted down, but the clones of the Republic armies responded with a loyalty to their superiors that could only be bred, not trained. For the soldiers of the elite 501st Legion, the only real change for them had been switching out their battered clone trooper armor for the bleach-white set of "stormtrooper" plates. Rex felt no remorse for the Jedi he had killed; he had merely been following orders, what he was born and bred to do.

Rex hefted his E-11, examining the deadly tool. It was different from the DC-15S blaster carbine he was used to, but from the practice hour she had on it, he knew that it was deadly enough.

At least, he hoped it would be deadly enough; there was not telling what sort of armor or defensive adaptations these aliens might have.

Rex mentally rehearsed his mission parameters; he and the rest of Torrent Company were tasked with boarding and neutralizing one of the massive enemy defense satellites by the means of a large anti-matter bomb to be delivered either to the station's reactor, bridge, or ammunition room.

First and Second Platoon were to board the station through its starboard hangar and proceed to the bridge, and Third and Fourth Platoons would board on the port side of the station and attempt to reach the reactor. Whichever task force reached its objective first would arm their bomb, alert the others, and then leave before the place was blown to smithereens.

That was the plan in theory, at least. Rex had been in the military long enough to know that no OPLAN ever survived contact with the enemy.

That adage was confirmed as another burst of flak buffeted the assault shuttle. The lights in the bay flickered slightly, and a thermal detonator grenade went rolling across the floor before another trooper secured it. Rex stood up, clipping his rifle to his armor before making his way up to the cockpit. The door slid open, and he ducked in. "What's the situation?" he asked.

"Take a look and tell me yourself," the pilot shot back, his teeth gritted in concentration as he wove the unwieldy shuttle back and forth.

Rex rotated his head, glancing out the viewscreen.

What he saw was truly unsettling, even for a veteran like himself.

Streams of yellow tracers were burning through space towards them and the other Imperial craft, so many and so accurate that it was astonishing. Rex was shocked at how accurate the enemy AA fire seemed; every other burst appeared to knock an Imperial fighter out of the void. At the same time, blue pulse lasers from those strange, sleek alien ships were picking ARC-170s out of the sky. The angular, black UNSC starfighters as well as the tear-shaped alien fighters dueled with the ARCs, missile trails, lasers, and cannonfire etching patterns across the night, punctuated with the occasional explosion of a fighter silhouetted against the outlines of the alien capital ships and defense stations.

"Where's our escorts?" Rex asked as a stream of enemy fire impacted on the shuttle, its shields burning as they deflected the heavy .50 caliber shells.

"I don't know," the pilot responded, wrestling with the controls as he attempted to perform evasive maneuvers in a ship that wasn't designed to perform evasive maneuvers. "They broke off a while ago, said they were trying to intercept an enemy squadr-"

The pilot was interrupted as an ARC-170 starfighter abruptly shot past the viewscreen, flame streaming from one engine. Locked securely on its tail, one of those angular UNSC starfighters maneuvered into position and fired a missile. There was a small puff of flame from the ARC-170's cockpit as the pilot ejected, and then the craft was swallowed by a fireball.

"There's your answer," the pilot said sarcastically, but he never had time to finish his biting retort. One of those odd teardrop-shaped alien fighters came streaking out of nowhere, firing blue pulse lasers from a heavy cannon slung under the fuselage. Rex instinctively dove to the floor of the cockpit as the lasers blew through the assault shuttle's shields. Luckily, no blasts hit the cockpit, or the atmosphere would have vented, but several systems were blown out as the lasers peppered the hull, peeling back and melting armor plate like butter. More importantly, one of the pulse laser blasts hit the engines, which exploded, sending a tremor through the ship. A control panel exploded in a shower of sparks even as a heavy ceiling panel detached, falling down and crushing the pilot beneath it.

Rex swore, darting forward to check the body. The man wasn't dead, merely unconscious, but for all intents and purposes, the effect was the same. While Rex knew that he could probably figure out how to fly a Gamma-class shuttle after a few minutes of trial and error, minutes were a luxury they didn't have right now.

Even so, Rex couldn't resist trying the controls, just to confirm that the shuttle's engines were offline.

They were. The shuttle was un-pilotable, now merely a parabolic mass heading towards the station, subject only to the Laws of Physics and of Murphy.

Rex returned to the bay. "We've had a slight change of plans," he said into his mike to the subordinate troopers of First Platoon. "Everyone get your vac suits on. Now."

Rex blessed Imperial discipline as he glanced back and saw that none of the troopers had voiced a single complaint, not paused to ask silly questions like, "Captain, why are we going to jump off of a ship in vacuum that hasn't stopped moving yet?"

Moving with a speed known only to the desperate, Rex retrieved his full-on EVA suit from an equipment locker. While regular stormtrooper armor could survive vacuum for a few short minutes, that would be insufficient for their current needs. Imperial EVA armor, however, was designed with boarding operation specifically in mind, equipped with magnetic boots, thruster packs, a three hour oxygen supply and recycler, and a large arc cutter that was perfect for cutting holes in ships.

It was a tricky thing to pull on the EVA suits over stormtrooper armor, but the soldiers of First Platoon had no choice. They all finished in record time, and Rex returned to the cockpit, checking one last time that his hasty calculations had been correct.

The shuttle had been nudged off-course slightly by the explosions, and was now heading at a sheer angle to the station. Suddenly thankful for the required advanced mathematical classes that he had cursed so much during training, Rex knew that, if the troopers literally "jumped ship" at the right time, they could use their own inertia and the station's gravitational pull to suck them in.

It was a fine line, however, and a jump that had to be timed perfectly. Rex entered the factors into his armor's tactical computer, and the armor accordingly spit up a countdown timer to the optimum jump time.

Fifteen seconds from now.

"Everyone get ready!" Rex yelled, sprinting back to the bay-well, moving as fast as one could while wearing a full vacuum suit.

"What about the bomb, sir?" one of the troopers asked.

"Kark the bomb!" Rex responded eloquently, silencing any dissent. "Second Platoon has one too!" On his way back, he hit the hatch release, and the door to the hold slid open, revealing the inky blackness of space beyond.

Had any of the troopers in the hold not activated their magnetic soles, they would have been sucked out into oblivion. As it was, they merely had to fight with all their strength to stand still as the bay depressurized. Anything not nailed down came loose and flew out the door like last night's uneaten rations. Had they been able to hear anything, it would have seemed as if a howling wind scoured the hold, ripping apart anything in its path.

The countdown clock hit red.

"Now!" Rex yelled across the com, and the stormtroopers responded, turning off their magnetic soles. In accordance with Rex's hastily thought-up plan, they were plucked out of the bay in an instant, sent hurtling into space and towards the enemy station.

And not a moment too soon. No sooner had Rex's feet left the metal floor and he was flying through the void than a stream of CIWS fire from the station ripped apart the remnants of the shuttle, sending debris flying through space.

Rex knew that the general frequency would be so jammed with chatter no one stood a chance of hearing him, so he switched to the area bandwidth, which would allow all friendly forces within a kilometer to hear him.

He just hoped all his troopers were within that range.

"All First Platoon troopers," he said urgently, "form up on me and head to this beacon." He used his HUD to set a rally point near one of the station's airlocks, and briefly fired his thruster pack in a quick course correction, letting inertia do the rest.

Rex looked around, saw several white-armored forms among the void, flying along with him to the rally point.

Too few. Several troopers hadn't made the jump, or hadn't made it in time.

Rex shuddered. The EVA suit's thruster packs allowed for limited maneuvering, but not enough to get back to friendly ships if the jump was miscalculated. They would die a terrible death, floating helplessly in the vacuum, wondering if they would freeze to death first, or die of asphyxiation.

Rex pushed those thoughts from his mind. There was nothing he could do about them now; he had to focus on completing the mission. The station was growing larger in his vision now, a massive satellite with guns all over its surface spitting fire. All around Rex, starfighters swooped and fired and exploded in eerily silent fireballs, but he paid them no mind, focusing single-mindedly on making it to the station alive.

Gradually, it grew larger and larger in his vision, and finally his armored boots made contact with the metal surface. He immediately magnetized them, sticking to the surface of the station like a parasite preparing to suck the life out of its host.

An interesting analogy, Rex thought with a grim smile, and one he would have pursued further had his mind not been on more pressing matters.

More stormtroopers began to land around him, silently attaching to the station and walking over to him in the vacuum. He waited for a short time, until he was certain that all who would arrive had arrived, some twenty-nine out of thirty-eight troopers originally in the platoon.

Nine lost before the battle even began. Rex shook his head in disgust, but forced himself to focus on other matters, such as finding a way into the station.

"Kappen, Markell," he said into the com, selecting two troopers at random and wincing at the sudden burst of static caused by the com, which seemed extremely loud after experiencing the silence of vacuum. "Slice through that airlock." He pointed to a set of blast doors at the end of a docking tube, which was probably intended to serve as a conduit between a docking vessel and the station, but was now to be their mode of entrance.

"Sir!" the two selected troopers responded immediately, walking haltingly over to the airlock (moving in vacuum wasn't exactly graceful, especially with magnetic boots) and activating the arc cutters built into their EVA suits. A spray of sparks rushed from the metal as their blades hit it, extinguishing nearly immediately in the vacuum.

_Hurry up…_ Rex thought.

000

Gamma-class assault shuttle I-242

Lieutenant ST-27-5555 "Fives" readied his E-11 blaster rifle as their shuttle closed to within a few hundred meters of the enemy station. "Everyone prepare to board!" he called, and the thirty-seven other elite stormtroopers of 2nd Platoon, Torrent Company, stood up, prepping their weapons and gear.

It was looking like they might have to do this on their own; a minute ago, the captain's shuttle had been hit, and they hadn't made any transmissions since. Fives had served under Captain Rex since the Clone Wars, knew him to be a fair and smart commander, and found it grieving that he was lost before the real fight even began, but there was nothing he could do about it. With a speed many would have called callous but Fives preferred to refer to as "practical", he had dismissed the matter of 1st Platoon's demise and accepted the fact that he now had operational command of the mission.

"Docking!" the pilot called out. "We're in! Lowering the ramp in twenty!"

Fives made his way to the front of the bay, already hearing the pings and thuds of projectiles skipping off the shuttle's armored hull. Primitive slugthrowers, likely, though if they were as "primitive" as the cannons carried by these stations, they were still forces to be reckoned with.

000

_Haven _Station

"Here they come!" Borodin yelled as the Imperial shuttle lowered to the ground of the hangar through the selectively-permeable magnetic field that contained the atmosphere, a technology courtesy of the Elites. Borodin glanced up and down the hangar, ensuring that all the Marines of his platoon were spread out throughout the hangar, taking cover behind ships, crates, and anything else that would serve, all aiming their rifles at the shuttle. Several automated defense turrets had been set up, all also aiming at the shuttle.

Borodin blew out a breath, and racked back the slide of his M55-A assault rifle, chambering the first of the magazine's 7.62x51mm rounds and saying a quick prayer as the ramp began to lower. He checked to make sure that his shields were fully charged-yet another perk of alliance with the Covenant Separatists-and hollered. "Short, controlled bursts!" he called. "Remember your training!"

000

Gamma-class assault shuttle I-242

"Soldiers!" Fives called. There was no time for a rousing speech, but there was always time to remind them of their duty. "This mission is likely the toughest of the battle, which is why they sent us! Do not underestimate your enemy; respect these 'UNSC Marines', and you will find that they are easier to kill. But know that we will emerge victorious! For the Emperor!"

"For the Emperor!" the troopers echoed, raising their weapons above their heads.

"Five," the pilot announced. "Four, three…"

Fives lowered into a crouch, ready to spring down the ramp and find the first available cover as he tightened his grip on his blaster rifle.

The last seconds as the ramp lowered seemed to take years, but the whistle finally blew, and Fives sprang into motion.

So did the enemy.

A stream of deadly accurate fire poured into the hatch, cutting down most of the first line of troopers and sending wounded ones down to the ground, screaming in agony. Fives watched in horror as one of the men in front was spun around by the impact of dozens of bullets, his armor shattered and cracked and blood pouring from the holes in his body, his armor apparently easily penetrated by the slugthrowers' rounds.

At that moment, Fives' respect for the "primitive" slugthrowers jumped several exponential levels.

But the soldiers of Torrent Company were battle-hardened; the 501st was not called the "Elite of the Elite" for giggles. They opened fire as well, throwing thermal detonators to keep the Marines' heads down as they dove for cover. Fives saw a pair of Marines get incinerated by one of the thermal dets and smiled behind his helmet as he skidded to a rest behind a large crate, bullets skipping off the floor all around him.

However, the Marines were also well-trained, and responded with grenades of their own. A hail of M9 HE-DP fragmentation grenades landed among the stormtroopers' ranks, detonating with tremendous force and riddling nearby clones with deadly shrapnel.

Fives leaned around the corner of the crate, and was greeted with a hail of bullets, one of which clipped his arm and spun him around. "Fierfek," Fives swore, looking down in shock to see a massive gouge ripped through his armor, blood pooling up from the shallow cut underneath.

_Note to self, _Fives thought wryly. _Bullets can penetrate armor_.

Forcing the pain out of his mind, Fives rapidly poked his head out again and ducked back just in time to see another hail of bullets deflect off the crate with a series of _spang_s and a shower of sparks. Now, when he figured that the enemy was expecting him in that same position, he stood up over the top of the crate, capitalizing on their momentary confusion to acquire a Marine as a target and fire a single shot, perfectly aimed towards one of the troopers.

Just as Fives was about to celebrate his kill, however, the armor of the Marine he had targeted burned brilliant yellow and white before fading away, leaving the Marine completely unharmed.

_Fierfek! _He thought as he dropped back down, dodging yet another hail of bullets. _They've got personal energy shields!_

A chorus of annoyed chatter over the comlink told him that the rest of the troopers were experiencing the same difficulty he was. Determined to find a way to circumvent it, Fives sprinted out from the crate and dove behind a docked freighter, leaning out and switching his E-11 to burst fire. He pulled the trigger three times, and watched as the Marine he had targeted tried to move to cover. The Marine's shields flashed, deflecting the first burst…and the second…

And then, on the first bolt of the third burst, the shields suddenly failed, vanishing with a _pop_, as if they couldn't take any more punishment. After that, the blaster bolts were just as deadly effective as ever, and the Marine went down, killed instantly by deadly lasers.

Fives gave a feral smile as he ducked back into cover and activated his comlink. "Just keep shooting," he said. "Those shields don't hold up forever."

000

_Haven _Station

Near Airlock VC2

Captain Rex led his understrength-platoon of stormtroopers in two columns through the empty hallways of the enemy station. After slicing their way into the station and doffing their bulky EVA suits, he had led them through the halls looking for a terminal or map to tell them where they were. It was almost eerie, how they hadn't seen anyone yet. Sure, there was the occasional automated turret or camera, but those were easily identifiable and taken out by the disciplined troopers before they could do any harm. Off in the distance, the sounds of a firefight could be heard as Imperial boarders engaged the station's defenders, but Rex assumed that all nonessential personnel had been withdrawn, because the hallways were silent.

"Sir," said one of the troopers. "Hall terminal, directly ahead."

Rex held up a fist, the universal "freeze" signal. "Kartax," he said, addressing his squad's tech specialist. "Go check it out, see if you can slice it."

"Yes, sir," Kartax said, jogging over to the terminal. The other troopers in the platoon all spread out, securing the hallway and protecting the vulnerable slicer's back as he took out his gear.

"Interfacing with the terminal," Kartax muttered to himself as he woke. "Inserting spike wedge, hmm, better-than-average firewalls, and-whoa. Whoa. Whoa!"

"What's going on, trooper?' Rex asked in annoyance. "What's taking so long?"

"Their security AIs are good," Kartax said in astonishment. "They just boxed my spike wedge into its own matrix! The program I was chasing the whole time was nothing but a decoy!"

"What are you talking about?" Rex hissed.

"The whole terminal's shutting down!" Kartax continued, as if he hadn't heard. "I'm locked out!"

000

Major Domo Tel'has Jarl'n crept down the hall of _Haven _Station, all but invisible with his active camouflage system activated, plasma repeater up and ready. Behind him, similarly disguised, the four Minor Domos under his command followed loyally, two following in the back, covering the rear of the group.

"Major," a voice suddenly said in his earpiece, and Tel'has jumped before he realized it was the voice of the station's commander, a one Captain Ryan Brown. "Our security programs report that there's been an attempted hack at a hall terminal near your location. Take your team and investigate."

"Yes, Station Master," Tel'has replied, his twin hearts beginning to beat faster at the prospect of action. He gripped his plasma repeater tighter, and waved his warriors forward. "Come," he said. "Our honor lies ahead."

The Minor Domos growled their agreement, falling in behind.

000

Heaving a heavy sigh, Rex got up off his knee and trotted over to where the tech specialist was staring in shock at the screen, which had gone abruptly black except for a single endless line of code that repeated over and over. Suddenly, the screen flashed again, this time into an image of a black flag with a white skull crossed by two swords. The skull appeared to laugh, the words "YE'VE BEEN FOUND, MATEYS" appearing under it.

Rex frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"No idea, sir," Kartax said. "I'm guessing it's a taunt or security Trojan of some sort, but I-"

"Contact!" someone yelled.

Rex spun around, rifle raised…

…and saw absolutely nothing.

"What is it?" he asked in annoyance, looking to the speaker, a younger trooper who had been a replacement for a soldier that had died in the assault on the Jedi Temple.

"I-I'm not sure, sir," the trooper replied, slowly lowering his rifle. "I could have sworn I saw something, though."

"What was it?" asked a sergeant.

"It was down the hallway," the younger trooper said, gesturing with his rifle. "It was just like a quick flash of movement, in the corner of my eye, but when I looked again it was gone."

Rex frowned. It sounded like just another case of a new trooper jumping at shadows, but they were on an enemy space station, and it paid dividends to be cautious.

"Keep an eye on it, trooper," he said. "Let us know if you see it agai-"

"Contact, contact!" another trooper yelled, firing his blaster rifle down the hallway at an invisible foe.

"Cease fire, trooper!" yelled a sergeant, jerking the trooper's weapon up and towards the ceiling. "There's nothing there!"

"There was, sergeant, I swear! It was hard to see, but it was there!" the trooper protested.

"Now, listen here," the sergeant said, stepping closer to the trooper. "No one else sees anything. So don't give away our position and-"

"Hold it, sergeant," Rex said, holding up a hand. "This merits investigating. First and Second Squads, go scout the end of the hallway."

As the troopers crept forward, Rex kept his rifle raised, and on a hunch, switched over to thermal vision.

The hallway was the deep blue and purple common of heat-devoid objects.

But at the end of the hall, four massive heat signatures loomed.

"What the-?" Rex began, switching back to normal vision, but was cut off as a firefight suddenly erupted, stormtroopers diving everywhere and firing.

One of the bolts suddenly stopped in midair, as if it had hit something.

It had.

A shimmering aura appeared, glowing yellow as it absorbed the energy of the bolt, before a massive figure became visible.

Rex automatically took a step back. The alien was massive, at least two and a half meters tall, with a reptilian head and a fearsome set of mandibles. Clad from head to toe in blue body armor, it clutched in its hands a long rifle-like object.

Three more shimmers appeared in the air, and three more of the aliens decloaked, opening fire with their weapons. Blue bolts streaked down the hallway, eerily reminiscent to the stormtroopers' own blasters, they melted through the armor of the troopers they hit, cutting them down like scythes.

"Engage, engage!" Rex shouted, diving for cover and opening up on the aliens along with the rest of the platoon. They were tricky to hit; they dove and rolled about, and whenever a hit was scored, their armor merely burned bright as personal energy shielding absorbed the bolts.

And they were accurate, too; their own plasma bolts cut down several stormtroopers even as one of them retrieved a glowing blue orb from its belt, flinging it towards a cluster of white-armored men. The device hit one of the troopers, and shockingly adhered to his armor. The man screamed, trying to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge. A second later, the orb detonated in a shower of white-hot plasma, crisping him and a trooper standing too near, spraying the wall with crimson.

The 501st troopers, however, were no pushovers. As soon as they realized that the aliens' personal shields would deflect single shots, they began to team up, focusing on and eliminating a single target at a time. One of the aliens fell as its shields overloaded, allowing bolts to hit its unshielded body. Rex fired on another one, taking out its shields and allowing a sergeant to put a bolt into its head.

In another minute, it was over, the four corpses of the aliens strewn on the ground, ten more stormtroopers dead or wounded. Rex was in the process of checking the pulse of a wounded trooper when someone called out, "Captain!"

Rex spun around, and watched in shock as a trooper behind him was bodily _lifted _into the air by another one of the aliens that had snuck behind them while the firefight had raged. The trooper fought back, swinging his fists wildly, but the alien didn't seem fazed at all. Instead, it retrieved a small object from its belt and snapping its wrist. Rex watched in horror as a pair of blades sprang into existence, wrapping around the hilt and extending outwards for nearly a meter. It vaguely resembled a lightsaber, but was much more elegant in its design.

But nonetheless deadly, Rex found out to his dismay as the alien plunged the sword into the chest of the trooper it held in its grasp. The man screamed in agony as the white-hot magnetically-contained blades of plasma melted through his plastoid armor, emerging from the other side.

"Kill him!" someone yelled, and that galvanized the troopers. They opened fire, their bolts absorbed by the alien's shields. The alien plucked the not-quite-dead trooper off his blade, throwing him to the side where the man hit the wall with a sickening crunch, sliding down to the ground, his neck broken by the force of the impact.

As his shields glowed brighter with the toll of absorbing the blasterfire, the alien sprinted forward at incredible speed towards Rex, its reverse-hinged legs blurring. Two troopers attempted to block it, one leaping in front of the charging creature with his rifle held like a staff, trying to stop it.

The alien merely lashed out, it sword bisecting the trooper's rifle and the trooper himself. The man died instantly, his torso falling one way, his legs the other.

The alien didn't have time to bring its sword across its body to attack the other; instead, it merely backhanded the trooper, sending the man flying.

Rex saw the alien coming, and judging from its previous performance, knew that his chances of taking it down in hand-to-hand were, putting it generously, _slim_. Nonetheless, he had to try, getting low and preparing to meet the alien's charge.

To his credit, he actually managed to wrap his arms around the massive creature's waist in an attempt at a tackle, but the alien had the momentum that he lacked. Rex felt himself bowled over, his head hitting the floor with a crack. He blinked, trying to focus his blurry vision, just in time to see the alien standing over him and plunging its sword down through his chest.

Pain. White-hot, lancing, burning pain, shooting through every nerve in his body, all of it stemming from the pair of blades imbedded in his chest. He coughed in shock, saw blood coat the inside of his visor, and felt his conscious rapidly fading away. He fought to stay awake, saw the alien's shields vanishing under the combined fire of the remaining stomtroopers, the accursed creature finally falling, armor blackened and smoking.

Darkness.


	11. Space is a Wonderful Place to Die

Chapter XI

**A/N: For inspiration while writing this chapter, I listened to much of the Lord of the Rings score. A higher-than-normal level of epicness may be expected :P**

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

ODP S6/PS/NA-2 _Haven_

0556 hours, March 30th, 2593

Captain Aleksander Klimov rested his back against the crate, drawing in a deep breath of air as red lasers streaked through the air around him. Waiting until the amount of fire slackened somewhat, Klimov readied his M55-A and leaned out, targeting an Imperial trooper and firing two quick single shots. The first missed low and to the left, but the second was on target, the 7.62x51mm round punching through the white armor and delivering a fatal hit to the man inside. The clone was thrown backwards, landing hard on the steel deck and joining several of his brethren.

But, Klimov was reminded as another volley of red lasers hammered into the crate, the enemy had more than enough clones to spare. In the minutes since the first boarding craft had arrived, even more had begun to slip into the hangar, each one carrying nearly forty troopers, and Klimov's platoon was soon outnumbered, trying desperately to maintain a foothold and keep the invaders from gaining ground. With the help of several autoturrets set up, they had been able to stem the white-armored tide, but things were getting trickier and trickier. The clones were obviously no pushovers; their shots were controlled and accurate, and several Marines had already met their ends at the hands of those deadly lasers.

Klimov switched his COM unit over to the station frequency, addressing Captain Brown in the CIC, more commonly known as the bridge. "This is Captain Klimov," he said. "First Platoon is heavily outnumbered in the starboard hangar bay. Be advised, we may not be able to hold this position." His words were punctuated as a Marine a few dozen meters down to his left was incinerated by a thermal detonator, spraying crimson all over the wall as the man's agonized scream was abruptly cut off. Klimov shuddered and stuck his M55-A around the corner, blind-firing a few shots to keep the heads of his attackers down before reloading, sliding a fresh magazine into the housing.

There was a buzz of static as Brown responded from the Combat Information Center. "Acknowledged, Captain," he said, his voice strained. "Second Platoon is reporting similar conditions; hold out as long as you can, over."

"Yes, sir," Klimov responded. He started to lean around the corner, but was forced to drop back behind cover with a punctuated curse as a hail of red lasers slammed into his armor, dropping his shields to thirty percent. Klimov looked around desperately, spotting the platoon's machine-gun team who had set up an M55-G with a belt feed and bipod in the catwalks above the hangar floor. "Ramirez, Terrance, give me some cover fire!" he yelled into the COM.

"Acknowledged, sir!" the pair responded, rotating the M55-G to face the group of stormtroopers that were harassing their captain. "Firing in three, two, one, mark!"

Klimov rose up, his legs pumping like pistons and the force-amplifying circuits in his armor making them move ever faster. Simultaneously, the gunner crew opened fire, the harsh _crackcrackcrack _of their M55-G tearing the group of three stormtroopers apart, bodies twisting like marionettes on strings as the hail of 7.62mm rounds ripped them apart.

Klimov dove behind a small hover-trolley laden down with mechanical tools, allowing his shields a chance to recover before immediately popping up over the top, acquiring a pair of clones as targets and firing five single shots. The trooper on the right went down immediately, a clean surgical headshot through the visor, but the second escaped unscathed, an irking fact to Klimov as he took cover once again and reassessed their position.

It was a mathematical impossibility for them to hold this hangar. Klimov brought up the platoon's status on his HUD. First Platoon was down nearly twenty percent of its strength, but the amount of clones coming in hadn't seemed to have wavered in the least.

That thought was punctuated as a clone with some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher took aim at the catwalks where Ramirez and Terrance had set up their M55-G. Klimov had just enough time to shout a futile warning before the catwalk was consumed in a fireball and came crashing down to the hangar floor, metal skidding against metal with a shower of sparks.

Klimov swore. Without local fire support, the Marines were now doubly screwed over. Another pair of soldiers were felled by blaster fire in front of his eyes, and that crystalized his decision.

They had to leave. The hangars were lost. If they withdrew, they might be able to organize an effective defense in the tight corridors of the station.

Klimov shouldered his rifle, peeking around the corner and dropping another stormtrooper with a well-placed burst. "Station Command, this is Captain Klimov! We can no longer hold the starboard hangar bay; repeat, starboard hangar bay has been compromised! Requesting permission to disengage immediately."

The pause in waiting for Brown's response seemed an eternity. Finally, the station's captain responded. "Acknowledged. You are authorized to disengage and fall back to the atrium. Second Platoon will meet you there."

"Understood, sir!" Klimov said. Ducking as a quartet of beams passed over his head, he activated SQUADCOM. "First Platoon," he said, "fall back to the atrium, one squad at a time. First Squad, with me. Covering fire!"

Klimov thumbed the selector switch on his M55-A to full auto and stood up, shouldering the rifle and allowing his shields to take a few hits as he opened up on the line of stormtroopers in front of him, along with the other members of First Squad.

The retreat from the hangar was quick and orderly, each squad covering the other as they disengaged and fell back. Only two more Marines were lost in the retreat.

Unfortunately, that was two more casualties to add to an already long list.

000

Fives couldn't say he was disappointed when he saw the UNSC soldiers begin to fall back. They had fought like dogs, like devils, to keep the stormtroopers out of the bay, and Fives suspected that it was only the Imperials' superior numbers that had eventually pushed them back.

Fives checked the pressure level in his current plasma gas cartridge, found that it was below twenty percent, and ejected it, replacing it with a new cartridge as the troopers formed up. Since Captain Rex's apparent demise, Fives was now technically in command of the mission on this station. "Troopers, on me!" he said, stepping over the crisped corpse of a UNSC Marine, the man's strange rifle still clutched in a death grip.

Fives couldn't help but smile slightly at the contradiction these forces presented. They came to battle armed with primitive-if effective-slugthrowers and dressed in strange ballistic armor, but boasted advanced shielding systems that put stormtrooper armor to shame. Not only that, but after years of fighting predictable droids, the clones had lost their edge in fighting enemies that actually thought and moved creatively.

It would not be an easy fight to claim the station.

000

The atrium of _Haven _Station was an expansive, open-aired room in the middle of the station, a crossroads for all station traffic. With its huge, vaulted windows that displayed a view of New Arcadia and the large gardens contained behind glass, it seemed to be in complete contrast to the stark, utilitarian nature of the rest of the station.

Of course, it was primarily intended to provide an aesthetic and "scenic" place to bring reporters eager to investigate the orbital defense grid. Despite that, however, the designers had taken into account its crucial placement in the station, and had thus provided it with a significant defensive ability.

"Walker, Powell, drag that barricade over here!" Klimov yelled, indicating a point between two raised garden tiers that created a natural choke point. Behind him, two burly Marines groaned as they dragged a heavy steel barricade into the position Klimov had indicated. The captain nodded in satisfaction, waving the two Marines back into position.

Klimov looked around, noting with satisfaction the multitude of steel barricades and deployable covers that had been set up around the atrium, all ready to deny the Imperials access to the atrium.

They had to succeed. If they failed, the Imperials could plant a bomb here, shatter the windows of the atrium, and explosive decompression would do the rest.

Klimov's motion tracker flashed, yellow dots signifying friendly contacts appearing on it. He looked up, feeling relief as the Marines of 2nd Platoon appeared, reinforcing and strengthening the UNSC position in the atrium.

One of the Marines jogged up to him. "Sir. Sergeant Peter Hart, acting command 2nd Platoon."

Klimov frowned. "What happened to Lieutenant Ibanez?" he asked, his gut tightening as he sensed that he already knew the answer.

Sergeant Hart grimaced. "KIA, sir."

Klimov sighed heavily. "Very well. Position your men around the atrium and prepare to-"

"Sir!"

Klimov spun around, his M55-A automatically coming up to his shoulder, saw that the massive double blast doors leading to the atrium were being slowly cut open by the outside, a molten heat spreading from their center.

"To your positions!" Klimov yelled, kneeling behind a barrier and setting his rifle to fully automatic even as he palmed an M9 HE-DP fragmentation grenade from his belt.

Silence fell across the atrium, broken only by the slow, steady breathing of anxious Marines and the occasional click of a rifle or shuffle of feet, with the steady crackling of the imperial plasma torch in the background as more and more of the door was cut.

A young Marine next to Klimov dropped his rifle, the weapon clattering to the floor. Cursing, the young man wiped his sweaty hands on his BDUs and retrieved the weapon, grasping it tightly.

Klimov laid a comforting hand on the man's shoulder and gave him a nod. Sometimes, all it took to inspire your men was a gentle touch and a gesture of understanding.

Klimov returned his attention to the door, where the orange-gold glowing of the plasma torch was growing even larger. "Soon as that door opens, let 'em have it."

000

Fives crouched behind the door that led to the atrium, dozens of stormtroopers that had survived the boarding attempt with him. The plasma torch had almost expended its energy; only a few more seconds now, and then they could seize the room. From what his sensors told him, there was quite a concentration of enemy forces in this room, which likely meant that there was something important in there.

If not, then at least they could wipe out a sizeable portion of the enemy's defensive assets. It was a win/win scenario.

Unless they died, of course.

Fives shifted. "Soon as that door opens, find cover and start shooting."

000

ISD _Imperium_

Captain Kehren Greydorm watched his plan come to fruition with all the tenderness of a mother watching her child. At his suggestion, Task Force Monolith had launched a wave of fighters and bombers to overwhelm the defenses of those massive stations. And while the Empire's fleet of starfighters was suffering losses against the enemy single ships, they had bought the time for the boarding craft to disembark their troops.

And those troopers, the feared and revered men of the 501st Legion, were doing their job.

The bridge's holoprojector sputtered to life, displaying an image of a white-armored trooper. "Monolith Actual, this is Mynock One. Bomb has been planted successfully; we are leaving the station."

Kehren glanced to Ozzel, seeing if his commanding officer wanted to acknowledge the report. Surprisingly, thankfully, Ozzel still seemed to be brooding over the fact that he hadn't come up with the boarding craft idea, so Kehren stepped in. "Monolith Actual acknowledges, one. You may return to your ships."

"Sir," the trooper responded curtly, and the feed was cut.

A minute later, the first of the three enemy space stations seemed to come apart in a ball of light.

Kehren gave a voracious smile. Victory, he felt, was soon to be at hand.

A few minutes later, the transmission was repeated with another station, which also burst apart in a ball of flame.

Only one station remained between Task Force Monolith and domination of the space above New Arcadia. Once they owned the space, they could own the land.

Kehren frowned at that; a few hours previously, an Imperial Intelligence Agency spy craft had jumped into the system, bearing orders from the Emperor himself. Having received their message reporting the commencement of hostilities, the Emperor had issued orders that the planet itself was to be invaded and taken over, to be used as a bargaining chip during future negotiations with the UNSC.

Kehren didn't think he necessarily liked that decision; while he was confident enough in the Empire's abilities to take over the world below, if the UNSC's ground forces were as competent as their Navy had proven to be, then they could be in for a long, hard battle.

He shook his head. No matter; his plan had already been established, and the Emperor's will must be done.

000

UNSC _Antietam _(BB-01)

The bridge of the massive _Pulsar_-class battleship was silent as they watched the second of the three Orbital Defense Platforms detonate in a ball of spectacular fire that marred the blackness of space before dying as quickly as it had bloomed, starved for oxygen in the vacuum.

Had Admiral Hawkins been holding onto the guardrail that ran near the bridge window, he likely would have left indents in the steel from the force with which his hands clenched together.

As it were, they merely dug bloody furrows into the skin of his palms.

While since there was only one left, the ODP could not prevent the Imperials from directly invading the planet, it was the only thing holding the Imperial fleet back from swatting aside the Allied battlegroup. Sure, the Allies would go down fighting, and they would inflict great casualties, but in the end, it came down to a simple matter of numerical ratios.

Hawkins turned back to the tac screen, surveying his split fleet, those holding the barely-tenable defensive line by the one remaining ODP, and those protecting the civilian evacuation at Garnet Spaceport. What with HIGHCOM's standing directive to protect civilians at all costs, he was caught between a rock and a hard place; he could withdraw his forces to the Garnet Spaceport and ensure the safety of those evacuating, but that would leave the door wide open for an Imperial invasion of the colony itself. Vice versa, if he committed his forces to defending the _Haven, _it would be easy enough for the Imperials to swing around and attack the evacuation still in-progress. A steady stream of bulk freighters, passenger liners, luxury yachts, and practically anything with a vacuum-proof hull and Slipspace drive was leaving the system, bearing as many passengers as they could, but it would be a while before everyone was able to get off-planet. That was a handicap that his opponent did not have.

And then there was the Outsiders. The root reason for this conflict. So far, they had been mainly content to sit behind the Allied fleet, but if the _Haven _was destroyed, then their safety was far from guaranteed.

Hawkins blew out a breath. The first order of business would be to find out just how bad the situation on the _Haven _was. Not pausing to tear his eyes off the view outside, he spoke.

"Patch me in to the _Haven_'s commander," he ordered.

"Of course, sir," came the automatic reply of Gungnir, the _Antietam'_s AI that took the form of a Viking warrior. A few seconds later, the bridge holotank buzzed to life, resolving into the image of a very distracted-looking Captain Ryan Brown.

"Captain," Hawkins said immediately, sensing that there was little time for dithering, "how are you holding up?"

"Not very well, sir," Brown said nervously, and Hawkins swore for a moment that he heard gunshots in the background. "The boarders have breached both hangar bays, and now they're advancing through the station and converging on the atrium."

"Can you hold them there?"

Brown furrowed his brows and exchanged some words with someone off-screen before turning back. "Unsure. Our position is…tenuous…at best."

"I understand," Hawkins said. "Do the best you can. Out." The transmission was cut, leaving Hawkins wondering if he could have come up with some more inspiring words to end the conversation.

Whatever. Captain Brown was a competent man; he would do the best he could. In the meantime, he had to worry about getting the Outsiders to safety. If the _Haven _couldn't hold, then there was no way that the limited Allied fleet would be able to protect them. "Get me to Admiral Yularen," he said. "I don't care what he's doing, just get him on the horn now!"

"Acknowledged, sir," Gungnir replied, getting to work immediately in contacting the _Resolute. _

Due to differences in the COM suites of the two radically different types of vessels, contacting Yularen took a while longer than contacting any Allied vessel. As Gungnir was working, the lieutenant (jg) manning the sensors station spoke up again. "Uh, sir?" he said apprehensively. "Twenty enemy contacts are moving forward from the Imperial fleet."

Hawkins frowned. "Show me."

Obediently, the lieutenant patched the data through to the tactical screen; it appeared that the task force separating from the bulk of the Imperial fleet consisted of twelve Victory-II class Star Destroyers, backed up by eight massive Tector-class Star Destroyers.

Hawkins felt as if an invisible force had delivered a gut punch to his stomach. This, he knew, would be the defining battle that would conclude the opening stages of the Battle of New Arcadia. The Imperials wouldn't be advancing such powerful, valuable ships unless they felt that victory onboard the _Haven _was nigh.

Their advance would have to be met, and stopped, if possible. But as great as it looked in the history holo-books to go down in a blaze of glory, what the history holo-books often neglected to mention was that going down in a blaze of glory was still going down. There was no great moral victory to be won here by committing all there forces and allowing the Imperials to roll over them.

"Contact Task Force Echo," he said, referring to the ships that were currently overseeing the evacuation at Garnett Spaceport. "Tell them to return to our position. Captain Farley and Battlegroup Valley Forge and the _Cloak and Dagger _will be taking their place."

"Yes, sir," the communications officer replied as he prepared to send the transmissions.

Hawkins sighed. He needed to get Echo up to reinforce his own group of ships, as it was headed by the _Hood_, one of their two _Nebulae_-class cruisers, and Valley Forge was still relatively intact, so it could help with the evacuation process greatly. He knew Captain Farley well; she was level-headed and competent. If they failed in stopping the Imperial advance, she would have to wage a guerilla war against the Imperials until reinforcements arrived.

"Sir," Gungnir said, his avatar reappearing. "Admiral Yularen is online."

Wordlessly, Hawkins turned to face his counterpart. The two men, alike in so many ways, yet literally worlds apart in their nature, evaluated the other carefully for a moment before Yularen spoke. "You would have words with me, Admiral?" he asked.

Hawkins inclined his head. "I would. What is the condition of your ship?"

Yularen winced. "If you're asking if we can fight, we can, but only from a stationary position."

"Fighting is of negligible interest for you and, by extent, us, right now," Hawkins said, shaking his head. "No, all I want to know is if you can make it down into atmosphere." If the _Resolute _could escape into New Arcadia's atmosphere, within range of UNSC land-based ICBMs, then it would be in much safer territory.

Yularen frowned and consulted someone off-screen before replying. "Given long enough, we could. We've managed to seal up all hull breaches, but one our engines is completely dead and we can get only about eighteen percent maximum thrust on all the others-"

"A time, Admiral, give me a time!" Hawkins interrupted, struggling to contain his impatience.

Yularen seemed a bit miffed by the interruption, but regained his composure nonetheless, stroking that fantastic white mustache of his before replying: "An hour, at least. Maybe an hour and a quarter if we push-"

"Not good enough!" Hawkins shook his head. "I've got twenty Imperial ships coming in; if they take out the _Haven_, there's no way we'll be able to protect you for an hour."

Yularen frowned, his eyebrows meeting in a sharp "v" as he contemplated the situation before finally replying. "I suppose if we push them, we could make it down to atmosphere in fifty, once we get deep enough into the gravity well that it can draw us down, but I'm not making any promises."

"For both our sakes, admiral, let's hope that you can," Hawkins replied. "_Antietam _out."

As the transmission vanished, Hawkins turned to Gungnir. "New orders for the fleet, excepting Battlegroup Valley Forge: form up on the _Antietam_. We will escort the _Resolute _while it retreats to atmosphere. Engage any Imperial targets within range at will."

000

_Haven _Station

"Get down! Frag out!"

Klimov ducked as the Marine next to him fired a 40mm grenade from the underslung grenade launcher on his M55-B. The explosive projectile arced through the air and detonated in the midst of a cluster of stormtroopers, blowing the Imperials apart in a gory display of flying limbs and red splatter.

"Hell yeah!" the Marine yelled. "That was one hell of a sho-"

It quickly became apparent that the Imperials were capable of making "one hell of a shot" attempts too; as Klimov watched, a beam that looked eerily similar to the particle rifles used by Jackal sharpshooters during the Human-Covenant War lanced through the unfortunate grenadier's shields, helmet, and bone, like butter. The man crumpled in a heap, blood and steam whistling out of the neat new hole in his head.

"Shit! Sniper!" someone yelled unnecessarily.

Klimov looked around as blaster bolts flew past his head. Hunkered behind the steel barricade as he was and with the modicum of comfort provided by his personal shields, he felt safe enough to have a quick look-see. He popped out of cover, glancing around and relying on his Command Network Module, or CNM, to paint the silhouettes of Imperial troopers in red on his HUD.

It seemed to him that there was a lot more red than there had been a minute ago.

That thought was put out of mind quickly, however. What was put _into _mind was that he was right, in that the laser beam that whizzed by his ear close enough to make his energy shields flash and fail was vividly ruby red.

Klimov dove back behind the barricade as his helmet's speakers pulsed an alarm in his ears, even as the shield bar in the corner of his HUD flashed urgently, drawing attention to its drained station. Klimov pressed his back up against the steel, allowing the shields time to cool down and recharge. It took several seconds, all of which seemed like an individual eternity, but eventually the bar refilled, the alarms ceased, and the familiar slightly tingly feeling of the energy shields around his body returned.

Now, back to business. The Imperial's near miss had allowed Klimov to note the general direction the beam had come from; a small balcony overlooking the right side of the atrium. Unless the Imperial had moved since his last shot-which was a distinct possibility-Klimov knew just where to find him.

"Mastranikes, Tellant, with me!" he said, selecting the two closest Marines to him. "On ten!"

The two Marines nodded their acknowledgement, and Klimov activated his COM again. "On my mark, covering fire." Klimov waited a few moments, then said, "Mark!"

The remaining Marines in the atrium rose as one and blasted a wave of bullets towards the stormtroopers. The sheer intensity of the sudden barrage caused the wise stormtroopers to seek cover, and the foolish ones to suddenly become in need of a medic. As the Imperial fire slackened, Klimov jumped out of cover, Privates Mastranikes and Tellant with him.

As they sprinted across the atrium, Klimov took stock of the sniper's location; the aforementioned balcony was located at roughly the midline of the atrium's right side, a convenient marker of the Imperial- and UNSC-controlled sides of the room. He had posted a machine-gun team up there in the early stages of the fight, but they had been taken out quickly by an Imperial rocket launcher, and he had never bothered to send another team up there. A stupid mistake, a simple oversight, but now it was costing him, the Imperials having realized the value of the high ground and occupied it.

The balcony was accessible from both sides by a flight of stairs, and from behind by a door that led to another part of the station, but that door was locked, meaning that there were effectively two avenues of approach.

Klimov swore and almost tripped as another sniper beam drilled into the floor by his foot. More laser fire began to rain down from the balcony, causing him to stumble before catching himself on his hands and staggering back to his feet.

He felt Private Mastranikes' hand on his back. "You hit, sir?" he asked.

Klimov tried to speak, but found his throat raw from breathing the stench of ozone from Imperial blasters and the cordite from their own firearms, and all that came out was a ragged cough. Clearing his throat, he settled for shaking his head instead. "No, I'm fine," he wheezed. "Let's go!"

By now they had reached the bottom of the stairway. Realizing that the Imperials could have set up a drone or mine of some sort to protect against anyone coming up that direction, he briefly switched his HUD monocle's vision mode over to EMF to scan the staircase, but saw no anomalies. Satisfied, he reached for a grenade to hurl into the balcony…

…and his hand brushed against empty pockets. Klimov looked down in dismay; he had been sure that he had a grenade when he set off. It must have fallen out when he stumbled. Sure enough, he looked back to where they had come from and saw the little metal sphere sitting peacefully in the midst of the firestorm.

There was no way he was going back for it, not with the amount of fire going back and forth. Groaning, Klimov turned to face the two privates. "Either of you two got grenades?" he asked.

They checked their tac vests, but also came up empty. "Fresh out, Cap'n," Tellant said. "Used the last of 'em a minute ago."

Klimov sighed. "Flashbangs, then," he said, reaching down to retrieve an M9-C flashbang grenade from his vest. He pulled the pin, cooked it for a moment to decrease the likelihood the Imperials could throw it back, and threw, letting it clatter to the floor in the balcony. He then joined Tellant and Mastranikes in looking away, polarizing their faceplates, and turning their helmets' hearing actuators down to their lowest levels.

Even with those measures, however, it was more than obvious when the flashbang had gone off by the sudden blast of noise and accompanying sunlight. For the unprepared Imperial troopers inside the balcony, where the confined space would have multiplied the effects tenfold, it would have been utterly debilitating.

They had to capitalize on that confusion. "Come on!" Klimov said, and pounded up the stairs, flipping his M55-A to full auto.

They stormed into the balcony to find three stormtroopers inside, one armed with a long black rifle, whom Klimov was assumed was the sniper, and two other troopers. All of them were reeling from the effects of the flashbang, stumbling around and falling to their knees.

Ripe for the picking.

"Light 'em up!" Klimov yelled, shouldering his rifle.

The three Marines opened fire in quick, full-auto bursts. Klimov stroked the trigger, marveling at the almost nonexistent recoil even as the deadly rounds punched through the bleach-white stormtrooper armor, allowing the man's life essence to pour out of him.

Mastranikes and Tellant eliminated the other two just as quickly, leaving three Imperials lying in ever-increasing pools of red.

Klimov was shocked at how…_easy_…it had been to kill them. He had never given it any thought in the hangar or before, but their armor didn't appear to be up to stopping bullets. Sure, it would deflect glancing hits or occasional shots, but under accurate, concentrated fire, it seemed as if it hadn't been designed with bullets in mind.

Of course, it probably hadn't, Klimov realized, not with those weird blasters that the Imperials fought using. With those, the effectiveness of their armor was likely an entirely different story. It occurred to Klimov that, having dealt with energy-based weapons in the form of Covenant plasma, and bullets for centuries, the UNSC was actually better-prepared than the Imperials to defend against both kinetic and energy-based weapons.

Klimov frowned. Was this what the Covenant had felt like during the War?

Tellant stepped forward, nudging one of the corpses. "Yup. Definitely KIA," he said.

The words had barely left his mouth when the body he had nudged twitched slightly, the Imperial apparently not quite as dead as Tellant had reported.

And an armed thermal detonator rolled out of his hand to bump against Tellant's boot with an innocently cheerful _beep_.

"Get dow-!" Klimov began, but never finished the sentence. Even as he and Mastranikes dove for cover, Tellant looked down, unable to do anything but utter a single, heartfelt curse before the world was consumed in a flash of light.

Tellant, having been practically standing on top of the grenade, was killed instantly, his tortured scream cut off even as his outline was highlighted briefly against the white, his shadow burned into the wall before his body was incinerated. And while with a UNSC fragmentation grenade he might have absorbed all the shrapnel, Imperial thermal detonators worked on an entirely different principle, relying on the actual _heat _and resulting overpressure of the explosion to do its damage rather than the flying bits of sharp metal. As such, Tellant wouldn't even have the comfort, if he could have known it, of thinking that he had saved his squadmates, since the explosion simply incinerated him and continued outward without pause.

Since Klimov and Mastranikes were standing farther away and had been able to dive for what little cover existed, they weren't killed outright. However, the intense, burning heat that passed over him may have convinced Klimov that for a moment he had died and gone to hell. His shields vanished, stripped away by the explosion, and his skin seemed to be on fire as fatigues were melted to them and second-degree burns were raised all over his body.

But it was over almost as quickly as it had passed, the fire lacking the fuel to sustain itself for more than a second. The overpressure wave passed over him with a _pop_ that rattled his bones, and he was thankful that he had been wearing his armor; without it, the detonation likely would have liquefied an internal organ or two, being that close to the detonation.

He didn't have much time to give thanks, however, as a quintet of blaster-wielding Imperials abruptly stormed into the room, intent upon gaining revenge for their deceased comrades.

Klimov swore, tried to stand, but his legs had been severely burned in the explosion, and they screamed in protest, buckling underneath him, unable to support his weight.

Abruptly, a pair of hands reached under his arms, grabbing him. "I've got you, Captain!" he heard Mastranikes say. Apparently, the Greek private had escaped most of the thermal detonator's effects.

Klimov wasn't complaining. As the private began to pull him backwards, he raised his M55-A, firing it one-handed while gritting his teeth at the pain that blossomed in his legs.

To his credit, he actually managed to take out one of the stormtroopers and wound another, but his shields had yet to recharge, the system likely fried by the thermal detonator's effects. At any rate, it meant he was more than vulnerable to the burst of lasers the lead stormtrooper sent his way.

The Marine armor he wore did its job, dissipating and absorbing the heat of the first few bolts, but even its strength only lasted so long.

Klimov dropped his weapon as an intense, burning pain erupted in his chest. Behind him, he could hear Mastranikes' tortured screams as they burned him to the ground as well, the man's fat and hair literally igniting so that he became his own funeral pyre.

Klimov began to reach for a grenade, then realized he had none left. The pain was unbearable.

Klimov dove for his dropped M55-A, but the stormtrooper put another laser right between his eyes.

And the pain stopped.

000

Fives knelt down, inspecting his latest kill. The man's left shoulder pauldron was daubed in blue, which in the Imperial Army meant "lieutenant", but he had no idea of knowing what it meant in this arm of the galaxy.

Then his eyes dropped down to the man's chest, where a small tag was attached to the armor. Frowning, Fives peered closer.

_Cpt. Klimov, Aleksander, B._

_ AK-0183-192893_

So he was a captain. Fives nodded in satisfaction. That likely meant he had been in charge of the Marine defenses here. He looked down; the Marines were still putting up a ferocious fight, and the 501st was quickly learning that fighting humans again was much different than fighting droids, but the elite stormtroopers' training and numbers were beginning to tell. The Marines' fire was becoming irregular, sporadic, and inaccurate, while the stormtroopers were swarming forward to take up superior cover and firing positions.

Watching them, Fives couldn't help but feel a thrill of pride.

"Sir," said one of the troopers next to him. "I suggest we set the bomb now."

Fives turned around. "What?"

"This area would prove just as valuable as the bridge or reactor, and the longer we stay here, the more likely the enemy is to reinforce." the trooper said, gesturing at the massive vaulted windows above them. "If those are shattered, then the laws of physics will do the rest of our work for us."

Fives frowned, wondering why he hadn't thought of that. "Indeed they would. Good thinking, trooper." He opened his mic. "Dance, Kite, bring the bomb, my location."

"Acknowledged, sir," came the instantaneous reply.

Fives joined the remaining troopers in setting up a defensive perimeter around the balcony with a pair of energy mines while the stormtroopers below mopped up the last remnants of the Marine resistance. Fives couldn't say he was disappointed; the enemy had fought like devils, and Torrent Company had been ill-prepared. He swore that would not happen next time.

A little while later, a pair of troopers came into the balcony, carrying between them a massive, oblong object with a small computer screen on its front.

"Here?" one of them, Dance, asked.

Fives glanced at the ceiling and at the bomb, and determined that the balcony would not hinder the explosion too much. "Yeah," he said.

Obediently, the two troopers set down the bomb, and immediately, two pairs of metallic drills emerged from each side, burrowing into the floor and then extending spikes outward to prevent the bomb from being dislodged by anything short of a tank.

Kite kneeled down over the screen. "How much time should I set it for?"

Fives started to answer, then frowned, confronted with a tricky situation. Any amount of time that would allow the rest of the stormtroopers onboard the station to safely exfiltrate would also give any surviving UNSC personnel onboard time to defuse the bomb.

There were two answers, and of those two, only one had an acceptable outcome. Either they could set the bomb to its default pre-loaded time and leave, hoping that no one managed to shut it down, or someone had to stay behind and guard it.

Fives knew what decision had to be made, but a small part of him balked at the thought of asking one of his troopers to sacrifice themselves, even after so many had died storming this station.

_The true tragedy of war is not in those that die because circumstances allow it,_ he thought, _but in those that must die when the situation demands it._

Nonetheless, the mission could not go uncompleted. Fives cleared his throat. "Someone has to stay behind," he said.

It was no big surprise-all of the troopers were smart enough to figure out their situation-but the remark still brought a pause and a silence from those assembled.

Fives took in a breath. "I can do it myself, if-"

"No," said a voice, and the clones parted ranks to allow a single trooper, Sergeant Ridya, to step forward. "The company needs you. I'll go."

Fives bit his lip; Sergeant Ridya was an experienced trooper, and a valuable leader in combat. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Because I-"

"No," Ridya said quickly. "Your life is more important. I will go." He knelt down next to the bomb and keyed in the time. "Now leave."

It was the way clones were bred that made them follow orders from superiors automatically; it was not often that a subordinate gave a direct order to a commander. In this case, however, it was warranted, and Fives nodded, impressed by the calm in the man's voice. Not so many could face death without so much as blanching.

"It's been an honor, trooper," he said, saluting.

"Likewise," Ridya said, taking up a position against the side of the door. "Now go. I can hear them coming."

Fives gave the trooper one last look, and then tossed him an extra pair of thermal detonators before turning quickly away. "Troopers, on me!"

000

ISD _Imperium_

"This is Mynock Three," the stormtrooper on screen said. "The bomb has been delivered, and we have left the station."

Captain Kehren Greydorm nodded in approval. "Very good," he said. "Monolith Actual out."

The screen fuzzed out into static, and Kehren allowed himself a fierce smile. His plan had worked. Once the last report on this battle was written, he was practically convinced a promotion was in his future.

The anticipation was tangible, all of the bridge crew perking up to watch the moment they had worked so long for.

Which only made the final explosion that much sweeter.

As the last vestiges of the fireball were dying in the vacuum, Kehren turned to Admiral Ozzel, who was glowering out the window, no doubt still sulking about how Kehren had upstaged him. The buffoon didn't even realize his own incompetence.

Kehren smoothed his face, assuming that blank, expressionless military mask and straightening his spine to that ramrod-straight stance he had perfected. He marched over to Ozzel, black boots clacking against the bridge floor, and gave a slight bow from the waist. "Admiral," he said calmly.

"What is it?" Ozzel asked, sounding vaguely depressed, and Kehren frowned. Was the poor fool actually sad?

Trying not to smile, he continued. "I am here to request position to initiate the final steps of my-of _our _plan," he quickly corrected, hoping to assuage some of the admiral's ego so he wouldn't become a combat ineffective raging lunatic again.

"Yes, yes, very well," Ozzel said distractedly, waving a hand. "You've done a good enough job of executing _your _plans so far anyways."

Kehren frowned briefly, wondering if that was a veiled threat, before quickly bowing again. "Thank you, sir," he said, and leaned down to face the bridge crew in the control pit below the walkway. "

"Issue the word to being the planetary invasion. Oh, and tell Monolith Twelve that they can begin their advance."

"Yes, sir!" the senior communications officer replied immediately, snapping a crisp salute. Kehren nodded in satisfaction; quick and efficient, just as things should be on an Imperial Star Destroyer. He made a mental note to put that officer on his list for potential promotion.

Monolith Twelve was their trump card, a ship kept tightly under wraps by the Imperial Navy until now. It had been the seventy-third ship of the Imperial armada that invaded Psi Olympus, camouflaged by dozens of cloaking devices that kept it hidden from the Allied sensors. The sheer amount of cloaking devices required to fully disguise it could have outfitted a small fleet.

It was the _Malice, _a _Subjugator-_class heavy cruiser nearly five kilometers in length and possessing two massive ion cannons that, when fired, could cause an EMP-like effect strong enough to temporarily disable an entire task force of ships. Only two of its kind had officially been built before. During the Clone Wars, the _Malevolence _and the _Devastation_, had wreaked absolute havoc upon the Republic, terrorizing their Navy and disabling entire fleets of capital ships with their massive ion cannons. The _Malevolence _had briefly served as the flagship of General Grievous, military leader of the CIS, before its destruction by Anakin Skywalker and his apprentice.

It had taken the blood, sweat, and tears of thousands to finally hunt those ships down and destroy them. When they were gone, the public had breathed a massive sigh of relief that the menace was as well.

However, unbeknownst to much of the Republic, the Emperor, former Chancellor, had seen a strategic value in the ships, and after Republic spies acquired the plans for the ship during the destruction of the _Devastation_, he secretly commissioned the building of one more of the massive vessels.

That vessel, the _Malice_, had been completed only a month ago, untested in battle. And if the records of its predecessors were anything to judge by, it would put on one hell of a show.

**A/N: This chapter was a b*tch to write. I hope you liked it.  
>I'm sorry if I got some of the specs on the <strong>_**Malevolence **_**wrong; I never actually **_**saw**_** the Clone Wars episode it starred in, so I'm going mainly off of Wookieepedia information. If I messed anything up, let me know.  
>Anyways, I had hoped to cover the first stages of the planetary invasion, but this was getting rather long, and I really felt like this would make a good cliffhangar moment. <strong>

**My muse has been rather overworked lately, so please calm him down by feeding him reviews. He eats them like candy.**


	12. Preparation and Devestation

Chapter XII

**A/N: As always, Star Wars and Halo are the properties of their respective owners. Sadly, I do not own them. If I did, I would not be writing this story. I would be raking in the rolls of cash and eating peeled grapes while reading the Wall Street Journal and relaxing by the pool of my multi-quadrillion dollar mansion.**

**As it stands, I merely own my OCs and any other original material. Which is why I'm merely writing fanfiction instead **

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

Fort Briggs, Emerald Haven, Illerean subcontinent

0812 hours, March 30th, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

"Sir! Colonel Dall is on the horn; he's requesting a supply run to the business quadrant of the Eastern District."

Lieutenant General Sean Pershing, UNSC Army, looked up from the holotable he was leaning over, tearing his gaze away from the data on troop deployments and position strengths to focus his gaze on the young, fresh-faced specialist that was manning one of the communications consoles in the war room of Fort Briggs, the Army's primary base on New Arcadia, located on the northern side of the city's Western District.

Pershing rubbed his forehead and glanced back at the holotable that displayed the positions of all the forces currently available for the defense of the city. Colonel Robert Dall of the 221st Brigade, 31st Infantry Division, had been assigned to set up defenses around the business quadrant in order to provide a forward firing position for the 324th Artillery Regiment of the 58th Marine division.

The 31st Infantry Division was one of two Army divisions, the other being the 30th, in the city of New Arcadia, and set up in the Eastern District. And while Pershing, as overall commander of the UNSC Army's 8th Corps, to which both divisions were attached, technically had authority over them, the 31st fell under the direct command of Major General Ryan Settleton, his direct subordinate.

Pershing sighed. Colonel Dall was a man that was never satisfied with the amount of supplies he had at his disposal; he was a very defensive-minded officer, with a natural knack at how to deploy his forces so that he could block the most roads with the fewest soldiers. Now, that was all well and good in its own right and could come in handy in a siege of the city, but such thinking also led to a rather nasty habit of hoarding supplies, supplies that many other forces in the city were in need of.

"Isn't General Settleton available to talk to him?" Pershing asked, not wanting to have to wrestle with another officer.

The specialist hesitated for a moment, and then said, "General Settleton is supervising the construction of a forward HQ in the Eastern District. He's currently unavailable."

"Of course," Pershing said, grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead in frustration. "Fine. Contact Nort, see if he can route a Pelican over," he said, referring to General Alan Northorp, commander of the 18th Air Wing of the UNSC Air Force, stationed at Dielson AFB just outside the city.

"Understood, sir," the specialist said, returning to his equipment.

Pershing sighed and returned his gaze to the holotable, placing his hands on its rim and leaning forwards, his eyes half-closing.

"You alright, sir?" Major General Luke Harth asked, his gruff voice sounding slightly humorous as it attempted to adopt a concerned tone.

Pershing gave a small smile, turning his gaze to the short, stout Marine general that stood next to him at the holotable. All of about five foot ten and weighing nearly two hundred pounds, Harth was built like a fireplug, a Marine to the core. No, concern was not an emotion that came naturally to him.

"I'm as fine as anyone can be, considering the amount of sleep I've had over the past few days," Pershing said. "Luckily, I have this," he turned to the side and retrieved a steaming thermos of stout black coffee; no sugar, no cream. Just a straight blast of caffeine that kept him awake when all else failed.

Draining another extremely bitter gulp, Pershing gasped and blinked several times at the sudden rush of energy. "Drink coffee," he grunted. "Do stupid things faster with more energy."

That brought a bit of a smile from Harth, and Pershing turned back to the task at hand; overseeing the deployment of the forces available to defend Emerald Haven, and New Arcadia, from the impending ground invasion.

And that was where things got tricky, Pershing thought, rubbing his bleary eyes. The UNSC forces currently stationed at New Arcadia, excepting Colonial Guard units, consisted of the UNSC Army's 8th and 14th Corps, both of which had five divisions under its name, the 18th and 21st Air Wings, and the 43rd Marine Division, attached to the 12th Marine Expeditionary Force.

While that was a formidable force, certainly, the problem was that it was split up all across the planet to defend major towns and cities. While the 8th Corps was all stationed in Emerald Haven along with the 43rd Marines, the 14th Corps was split up among the various other towns and cities across the planet. That would put them at a serious numerical disadvantage to any invading army, if the site of the Imperial fleet was any indication of the size of their ground forces. And judging by the technology the Imperials possessed, the old "quality over quantity" adage might not be enough to save them here.

If he could coordinate with all the planetary forces and strike the Imperials when they were at their weakest, just as they landed and hadn't set up defenses, Pershing was reasonably confident in their abilities to contain and crush the invasion. The problem was that all UNSC forces had standing orders to protect civilians at all costs, and the evacuations to the Garnett Spaceport were not yet complete. As much as Pershing would like to ride forth and confront the enemy in open battle, that simply was not feasible without leaving the cities exposed.

So, they would have to sit and prepare and wait, something that irked Pershing to no end. It went against his grain to know that the enemy was coming, _just out there_, and he could not move against them. While most Army generals were more defensive-minded, as suited the role of the Army, Pershing felt that he had more in common with his Marine fellows, men who moved against the enemy quickly and with full force.

As it was, he was bound by orders to wait and gnash his teeth.

Of course, that was not all he was doing; there was still plenty of preparation in making a city ready to withstand a major siege, which was why he and the other commanding officers had been up for countless hours straight attempting to throw together a tenable defensive position while the Navy duked it out in orbit. While the city's AI, the Supervisor, had been extremely helpful in advising where best to block off major roadways and set up traps, it had not been designed with warfare in mind, and thus its usefulness was limited.

They were all tired. It showed in the haggard and weary expressions of those in the war room, from the highest general (which happened to be himself) to the lowest staffer.

They were all exhausted, and the battle had yet to begin.

But, Pershing realized as he swept his gaze around the room, they were not spent. It was sometimes hard to see behind the scraggly beards of those who hadn't gotten time to shave, behind the bags under the eyes of the equipment operators; a steely determination. After surviving a thirty-year genocidal campaign, the human race was made of tougher stuff than they appeared. No one was going to be folding under the pressure anytime soon, a fact that gave Pershing the smallest inkling of warmth in his otherwise cold chest.

"Now," he said, turning back to the table, "we have very little time remaining." He glanced across the table at Colonel Mohammed Ybedele of the 82nd Engineering Battalion. "Have the major highways through the Eastern District all been mined?"

"Yes, sir," Ybedele replied immediately. A short, dark-haired and mustachioed man of Middle-Eastern/African descent, his seemingly dull expression hid a quick, inquisitive mind and a penchant for knowing just where to place an explosive where it would cause the most chaos. "And all equipped with IFF mechanisms to protect our forces from accidentally triggering them."

"Good, good," Pershing said.  
>"Sir!" said one of the techs manning a bank of consoles near the back of the war room. The room fell deathly quiet as everyone turned to look at him, all knowing, expecting, and fearing the same news. The only noise was the steady hum of the monitors in the background.<p>

The tech swallowed nervously, glancing around at all the eyes upon him, before saying weakly, "Enemy troop ships have entered the upper atmosphere."

Pershing blew out a long breath and bit his lip. "Bastards are ahead of schedule," he muttered. The Navy must have really gotten its ass kicked.

Pershing shook his head. He couldn't bear to focus on the Navy now, only on his job. The meticulously-laid plans for planetary defense, schooled into every general's mind, now came to the forefront.

It was time to execute.

"What's their bearing?" he asked.

The tech glanced back at his screens. "Impossible to determine for the ships as a whole, sir. They've split into several groups. The largest, however, several dozen assault ships, appears to be coming…to be coming…"

"Coming where, specialist?" Pershing growled in annoyance, though he felt he already knew the answer.

"Towards us, sir," the tech answered with a gulp, and Pershing's guesses were confirmed. Of course, the Imperials would land their largest force outside the largest city. It made tactical sense.

"They appear to be heading towards the Nylson Fields, sir," the tech continued.

Pershing nodded. The Nylson fields were just that; a vast expanse of rolling hills that stretched on for miles to the east of Emerald Haven. Open and wide, they would provide the perfect staging area to land an invading army. The Imperials must have realized that, and adjusted their bearings accordingly. In addition, since they were so close to the city, that ruled out using nuclear weapons to decimate the landing force, as the fallout would decimate anyone within range.

And while there were no UNSC forces stationed in the fields, that didn't mean that they would simply let the Imperials land without a fight.

"What's the status on the ICBMs?" he asked.

There was a pause before another tech responded, "Sir, all stations within range are reporting they are in the green and ready to launch on your command."

Pershing nodded once. Around New Arcadia by the various military bases, there were a total of twelve missile silos capable of launching massive Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles. A throwback to the twentieth century and the Cold War, the missiles were still incredibly deadly, even though most of them were no longer tipped with nuclear warheads due to the amount of nukes that had been used during the Human-Covenant War and the time it was taking the UNSC to replenish its stockpile. Now, they were tipped with mainly conventional-but still powerful-warheads, and covered in stealth coating to make up for the lack in destructive _oomph. _After all, one knife in the right place was worth two swords that missed their intended mark. The anti-ship missiles that would be used in this strike were particularly deadly against large vessels; before impact, a nozzle in the nose of the warhead would open and spew a tight stream of incredibly hot plasma that would burn a hole through part of the ship's hull, allowing the missile to punch through and detonate inside. The numbers of anti-ship missiles were limited, however, so they would have to be launched sparingly.

Despite their effectiveness, they also had one major problem; they were launched from fixed, immovable stations, meaning that of the silos on New Arcadia, half were on the other side of the planet as this main invasion force. And while that was not a total destroyer of their usefulness-they weren't called Inter-_Continental_ Ballistic Missiles without reason-it meant that they would have to travel a much greater distance and stood a much greater chance of being detected and intercepted.

So out of twelve missile silos, only four were readily available to hit the landing Imperials. And they would have to be hit while landing; the silos only had a limited supply of missiles, and judging from reports sent down by the Navy, the Imperial ships had energy shields. Those shields would have to be lowered when they disembarked troops, and it was then that the missiles would be at their most effective level.

The trick, of course, was guessing when the Imperials were going to land and firing their missiles at an appropriate time so that they would arrive just as the bulk of the Imperial force was putting boots on the ground. Too soon and they might only destroy the vanguard, wasting a great deal of their potential destruction; too late and they would likely be detected and destroyed before they could impact.

Therein lay the inherent problem of attacking a landing force with ICBMs; one had no idea as to exactly _when _a force was going to land. Sure, guesses and estimations could be made based on present speed and destination, but those estimates could not possibly take into account a holdup with a supply freighter, or an aggressive enemy ship captain who wanted to be the first to plant his feet on an enemy planet, or any other of a myriad of trivial things that could either hold up or hasten the landing of an enemy force.

The ICBMs did have variable thrusters to adapt to changes in the enemy's speed, but using them would compromise their stealth casings, which would alert the Imperials to their presence.

Nonetheless, they were the UNSC's best hope for seriously scarring the Imperial assault before it truly began. They would have to be used.

"Prepare the silos for launch," Pershing said definitively, his voice carrying a tone of certainty and confidence that he hoped would inspire those in the room.

"Yes, sir," the specialist replied, sounding slightly giddy as he returned to his consoles.

Pershing smiled. "Let's blow 'em to hell."

000

IAS _Prosecutor_

High atmosphere, New Arcadia 

Commander Mat Lak was not a happy man.

He had never been someone disposed to joy and celebration and the like; they were emotions, annoying wastes of time that would consume you if you gave into them. Even in his childhood he had been of the dour sort, never speaking much and making few friends. It was an attitude he had carried into the Republic-now Imperial-Navy, and his bridge crew swore that he hadn't so much as cracked a smile in the past three years.

That having been said, and taking into account his range of emotions (which ran from impassive to mildly annoyed to pissed), Captain Lak was_ particularly _unhappy at the moment.

This whole idea was ludicrous, he thought bitterly to himself as the Acclamator-I class assault ship _Prosecutor_ sunk deeper into the atmosphere of the planet, surrounded by a dozen of her brethren, each carrying thousands of Imperial stormtroopers and hundreds of gunships and supporting armor. This whole invasion plan was absolutely ridiculous. They were supposed to land on an enemy planet with unknown defenses, engage and destroy enemy ground forces of an unknown number and ability, and capture the planet to use as a bargaining chip, all without even a proper Base-Delta-Zero to begin with?

Lak shook his head. He had never been one to question orders, but these were absolutely ridiculous, even if they did come from the Emperor himself; the Emperor obviously had very little idea of how a planetary invasion was properly carried out. And while that thought skirted awfully close to reason, Lak felt justified in it. In his mind, every major planetary invasion needed to start out with a Base-Delta-Zero, or orbital bombardment, to soften up the enemy's defenses. Otherwise, it would be like jumping into the jaws of a krayt dragon and then hoping that you can hop out before it closes them. But, because the Emperor apparently wanted the cities kept largely intact in order to have something to bargain with when UNSC reinforcements arrived.

In Lak's mind, that was a grossly idiotic tactical decision, rivaling on lunacy. The cities were where the bulk of the enemy forces were located, and while from surface scans it appeared that the Empire would have an overwhelming numerical advantage in the invasion, that was no reason to jeopardize the mission by forcing themselves into brutal, close-quarters, urban combat with an enemy that-so far-had proven more than capable of holding their own.

Even Captain Kehren, second-in-command of Task Force Monolith, had seemed slightly confused when he delivered the orders to him! Lak shook his head. In the Republic, one man never held so much authority that he could order such a foolish assault without opposition. But in this new Empire, the Emperor's word was law.

Lak wasn't sure he liked it.

Turning to the side, he glanced at one of the bridge crewmembers. "ETA?" he asked.

"At current speed, we'll touch down in fifteen minutes, sir," the man replied.

Lak nodded. "Notify Sub-Commander Tarn that his squadron being their accelerated landing now. I want them arriving first. No reason to bunch us all up like a bunch of Hutts clamoring for the last drink."

"Of course, sir," the communications officer replied.

000

UNSC ICBM Silo S6/P0/NA/4

Boulder Mountains, Illerean Subcontinent

Deep inside the Boulder Mountain Range, in a saddle between two nameless peaks, was a hole in the ground.

Of course, this was no mere hole in the ground created by some animal digging for food or by some overeager pioneer. No, this hole was several hundred feet deep, the inside reinforced with starship-grade titanium alloys, and a large retractable roof covering the top.

In it rested a massive oblong shape, narrowed to a point at the tip and with three large fins at its base. It was painted completely black save for yellow danger markings, and covered with ablative stealth coating designed to reduce its sensor signature to that of a small sparrow.

It was a Series-12 LMR-892 Articon Rocket, tipped with an M-78 anti-ship warhead. With a range that measured in the thousands of miles and a payload capable of destroying an unshielded _Nebulae_-class cruiser in a single strike, it was one of the most feared and revered weapons in the UNSC arsenal.

And it was being prepared for use for the first time in nearly half a century.

The motions required for that preparation were so familiar to Colonel Armond Doran, the silo's commander, that he could recite the steps by memory. As soon as the orders had come down from General Pershing that an ICBM strike had been authorized, the personnel of the silo had scrambled to bring their first missile up to readiness. Now, illuminated by floodlights, it stood in the middle of the silo, a small shaft of sunlight falling through the open hatch above to reveal the massive weapon.

Peering out the reinforced window of the command bunker, Doran watched as the tiny yellow-clad figures of engineers scrambled all around the missile's base, making sure it was prepped and ready. Several large mechanical arms held it in place, and even more engineers walked around it via catwalks that stretched around the interior of the silo.

It was an awe-inspiring sight, an S-12 LMR-892 ready to launch. If only they had more.

Their supply of the coveted M-78 anti-ship warheads was limited to three, as it was in all of the missile silos across New Arcadia. They would have to make each volley count.

"Sir," said one of the engineers next to him. "Reports indicate we are operational."

Doran nodded. "Good," was all he said.

He didn't need to issue any more orders; the missile would be launched at a time pre-determined by the silo's computer, which had logged the incoming Imperial ships as their targets and calculated the ideal launch time.

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity as the various engineers and techs scrambled out of the launch area, retreating into the caverns and tunnels that surrounded it. The large mechanical arms that held it in place retracted, and the missile was now balanced on the launch pad, ready to blast off. From there it would accelerate high up into the air, almost into low orbit, then cross the distance to its target in a matter of minutes before plunging back down to strike.

"Launch in T-minus four minutes," the automated computer's voice announced, booming through the loudspeakers all over the facility.

Doran felt his palms begin to sweat and rubbed them against his uniform pants. This was the beginning of something big, the opening blows in a massive battle. He felt a rather childish exhilaration as he watched the rocket.

The chatter of the systems technicians and engineers was more than loud enough in his ears as the loudspeaker announced, "T-minus three minutes."

"OSM, this is Launch Control, third stage S&A arm permit to close."

"Closed."  
>"SSC, third stage S&amp;A armed."<p>

"Armed."  
>"Prop 1, vehicle fuel tank press open."<br>"Open."

"Fuel umbilical purge to open."

"Open."

"SSC, vent 1 heater control exit."

"Exit."

"SSC, vent 2 heater control exit."

"Exit."

"WSO, confirm warhead armed."

"WSO confirms warhead is a go."

Doran spoke next. As mission director, he was required to confirm the readiness. "This is mission director. Rocket is a go."

Launch control then resumed the check-list progress. "SSC - FTS bat one and two heater controls heaters off."

"Off."

"Prop 1, pressurized first stage LOX tanks to relief."

"Pressurized."

"Prop 2, top first stage LOX to 100 percent levels."

"Up and down, 100 percent."

"T-minus ninety seconds."

"SSC, hydraulic external power to on."

"External to on."

"T-minus eighty seconds."

"RCO, report range go for launch."

"Range go for launch."

Doran spoke again. "LC, you are go for launch."

There was a pause, as if everyone in the room recognized the magnitude of what they were getting into, before the response came.

"Roger."

"T-minus sixty seconds."

The next minute was both the fastest and the slowest of Doran's life, a seeming eternity mixed with a sudden appreciation this could likely cause the death of thousands.

And when the flame blossomed from the bottom of the rocket and the bass roar penetrated the room, when the rocket blasted into the clearing morning skies, everything seemed so...quiet.

000

IAS _Indictor _

Sub-commander Kettel Tarn of the Acclamator-I class assault ship IAS _Indictor _felt a thrill of excitement as his squadron closed to within twenty thousand feet of the surface. The three other Acclamators descending with him had been hand-picked by Commander Lak to go first and secure a landing zone for the rest of the invasion force, and that was a great honor. He would make the Empire proud, and after this performance, undoubtedly secure a promotion.

It was slightly unnerving, however, that there appeared to be no hostile ground fire as the Acclamators descended through the clouds towards the fields below. That was not a bad thing, but certainly strange.

Even if there was hostile ground fire, however, it would do very little against the Acclamators. Even if it got past their shields, the hulls of the ships were impregnated with neutronium that spread out and resisted energy blasts. During the Clone Wars, Acclamators had been known to take entire volleys of CIS fusion rockets and keep on rolling with hardly a scratch on their hulls.

To say that Tarn was feeling confident was an understatement. He hadn't felt this powerful, this assured, this…_arrogant_…since his first skirmish. Every minute they descended unopposed was another minute that his assurance built. The time seemed to blur by, and before long they were touching down on the surface of the planet, the massive landing struts pressing huge indents into the waving grass all around them. The shields were lowered, and all throughout the ship came the calls for those onboard to prepare to hit the dirt.

Pride was the downfall of many, so they said, but it wasn't really pride if it was the truth, right?

Apparently, that was wrong, as there was suddenly a strangled cry from the sensors post. "Sir! We have enemy rockets incoming, thirty miles out!"

For a moment, Tarn was speechless in shock. How could they have gotten so close without being detected?

"Raise shields!" he bellowed, panic working its way into his voice.

"We can't!" yelled another officer.

"What?" Tarn asked. "Why?"

"Our ramps are lowered already," the man explained breathlessly, fear tinged in his voice. "Our shields have to be deactivated if we're going to land!"

"Well then take off and raise the shields!" Tarn exclaimed.

The bridge crew jumped to work as if someone had jabbed them with shock wands, frantically trying to bring the _Indictor _back to a defensive posture.

But the missiles were closing too fast, and Tarn knew it wouldn't be enough.

Well, at least they were just missiles, he reasoned. If the shields couldn't be raised, the armor should deal with them well enough.

What Tarn didn't take into account was that these were not the fusion rockets used in the Clone Wars. These were state-of-the-art UNSC anti-ship missiles, and they did their job devastatingly well.

The first missile streaked towards the _Indictor_, the first stage of its detonation process activating as a stream of blazingly-hot plasma was expelled from the tip, melting through armor plate like butter and weakening a huge section of the Acclamator's protection. And instead of merely detonating harmlessly against the side of the vessel, the M-78 warhead, tipped with a tungsten carbide penetrator, punched straight through the weakened armor into one of the outer corridors of the ship.

And _then _it finally exploded.

And as the IAS_ Indictor_ and its three sister shipscame apart in balls of flame, Sub-commander Tarn's last thought was about just how wrong he had been.

000

UNSC _Antietam _(BB-01)

High orbit, New Arcadia

"Enemy task force has closed to approximately 150,000 kilometers," Gungnir announced, breaking the steely silence on the bridge.

"Status on the MAC guns?" Admiral Hawkins replied in a chillingly quiet voice.

"We have a full charge on the Number One heavy MAC," Gungnir replied. "The Number Two starboard light MAC is at seventy-six percent, climbing at five percent a minute, and the Number Three port light MAC is at eight percent, with a similar percentage climb."

The Imperial ships loomed closer on the tac screen, their arrowhead- like shapes slicing through the void.

"Arm all Barrett missile pods," Hawkins ordered. "We're going to need them."

There was a momentary pause, and then Gungnir replied, "Of course, sir."

Hawkins glanced at the tac screen, noting the _Resolute_'s progress. It had nearly made into atmosphere; they just needed to stall the Imperials for a little while longer.

"Enemy task force has closed to approximately 130,000 kilometers," the sensors officer announced.

Hawkins grunted. Ten thousand more and they'd be within range of the Allied MACs. He assumed that the Imperials would try to get in close, within sixty thousand klicks, where there turbolasers would do the most damage. The Allies would have to keep them at range if they wanted any hope of survival.

"Coordinate firing patterns with the fleet," he said. "All vessels of destroyer-tonnage and lower team up with two more ships of such tonnage and focus fire on a single target."

"Understood, sir," Gungnir replied, relaying the orders. Hawkins swallowed. He hoped that by grouping the weaker ships together on single targets, they could overwhelm the Imperials one ship at a time.

How well that worked remained to be seen.

"Enemy ships are in range!" the sensors officer announced.

"Fire at will!" Hawkins replied.

It was Gungnir that did the targeting as the Allied fleet loosed its first salvo. Yellow streaks burned across space as the fleet's MAC guns fired, skipping off the shields of Imperial ships. The _Antietam_ shook, its bow flashing with light as the 1200-ton heavy MAC gun fired, its projectile smashing into a Victory-class Star Destroyer and overloading its shields. A second later, the battleship's two lighter, 600-ton MACs fired. Gungnir's aim was impeccable; the two rounds punched holes in the Star Destroyer in quick succession, twin explosions blossoming along its sides as it drifted out of formation.

The bridge crew cheered the first kill of the engagement, even as several more Imperial ships detonated in fireballs, overwhelmed by several smaller MAC shells. The three Separatist vessels loosed plasma torpedoes that burned through the shields of their targets and boiled off the hulls. Even Hawkins allowed himself a grim smile.

Now, as the fleet's MACs recharged, was when the Imperials would likely dive forward and attempt to gain ground. Hawkins was confused, then, as the Imperial fleet abruptly halted at one hundred and ten thousand kilometers, far out of range of their turbolasers.

"What are they doing?" he began to ask, but he never got to finish the sentence.

White streaks suddenly lanced out from the Imperial ships, burning across the void at impressive speeds. Hawkins frowned. This must be some type of new weapon.

"Shields up!" he called, even as the cry went out across the COM, "Enemy torpedoes incoming!"

"Evasive maneuvers!" Hawkins called, and the navigation crew responded, maneuvering the massive battleship out of formation and hard to starboard. Instead of streaking past, however, the torpedoes began to arc towards them.

Hawkins went cold, suddenly reminded of the Covenant's plasma torpedoes and their deadly tracking capabilities. Grasping at one last hope, he said, "Activate the CIWS batteries!"

Immediately, thousands of yellow tracers parted the void as .50 caliber Close-In Weapons Systems batteries all over the ship opened fire, attempting to destroy the incoming ordnance before it impacted. But although the CIWS fire was computer-controlled and deadly accurate, it didn't appear to be doing anything.

"The torpedoes are shielded!" the junior gunnery officer exclaimed.

Hawkins had little time to wonder about how that was even possible as two torpedoes closed in and detonated against the _Antietam'_s shields.

The shields burned brilliant silver as they absorbed the force, and the ship shuddered in response, but they held firm. Hawkins breathed a sigh of relief.

"Shield strength down to seventy-five percent!" one of the operations officers reported.

Hawkins gaped in disbelief. Two torpedoes had stripped away twenty-five percent of their shielding? The Imperials must have fired dozens of the things.

Fear gripped him as the realization of that possibility took hold. "Fleet status!" he demanded.

There was a pause, and then Gungnir responded, "The destroyers _Mediterranean _and _Waterloo_, as well as frigates _McKinley, Odysseus, _and _Normandy _are all reporting minor to moderate damage. The frigate _Red at Night_ is reporting a hull breach and near-overloaded reactor. Frigates _Adoni _and _Lancer _are…"

"Are what?" Hawkins snapped.

"Destroyed. Sir."

Hawkins swore. "What were those things?"

"Unknown, sir," Gungnir answered. "Brief spectroscopic reports showed them to consist of some sort of weaponized proton material, but I did not have time for a complete analysis."

Hawkins looked out at the Imperial fleet, hovering out there, preparing for another volley for all he knew. "Form up the fleet again," he said. "Loose skirmish formation. Begin a slow retreat, but keep them in the range of our MACs. And alert the _Inexorable _that they can return to us."

The CSS _Inexorable _had been escorting the _Resolute _down to orbit, but with these deadly new weapons, he wanted to have the ship's energy projector available for long-range combat.

"Yes, sir," Gungnir said.

Hawkins glanced at the Imperial fleet. They were just sitting there. Waiting. Watching. It was eerie.

Waiting? For what?

Hawkins felt his stomach suddenly be clenched in a vice of iron. "Sensors," he ordered. "Scan the area. See if we missed anything the first time around." If there was an Imperial trap, there would be no way he was walking into it blindly.

"Working, sir," the senior sensors officer announced. "We've got no anomalies. Wait."

Hawkins frowned. "Wait, what?"

"I just got a ghost contact," he said, "there and then gone again, really fast."

Hawkins felt the vice in his stomach grow tighter. "A ship?"

"Could be," the officer replied, "or it could be just a systems malfunction. Hold on; I'm gonna perform a precise scan."

The Electronic Warfare Suite of a UNSC _Pulsar_-class battleship was a powerful piece of hardware indeed, capable of detecting a frigate-sized craft from nearly half a star-system away. If there was anything there, a precise scan would be sure to find it.

"Find anything?" Hawkins asked impatiently after a few seconds.

"Not yet," the officer replied. "I-wait a minute. Shit! Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

"Calm down, officer!" Hawkins snapped. "What is it?"

"I don't know, sir!" the officer said, swiveling in his chair to face Hawkins, his face blanched white. "But there's something there, and it's freaking gigan-"

"New contact," Gungnir announced. "High-tonnage."

That, Hawkins decided, as he turned to the tac screen, was the understatement of the year.

Hanging in the void between the two fleets, suddenly having appeared out of what seemed to be thin air, was one of the largest ships Hawkins had ever seen.

The _Antietam _docked in at two and a half kilometers.

This ship doubled that.

Spanning nearly five kilometers from stem to stern, this massive ship was a dark grey in color, with a large command tower rising near the back and a large split at the bow. One gigantic cannon hung on each of its flanks.

Hawkins was in no hurry to find out what they were capable of.

He also instinctively knew that no amount of Barrett missiles were going to lower the shields on that monster, and the fleet's MAC guns were still charging.

Which left only one option.

Run like hell.

"Evasive maneuvers!" he yelled out, and the _Antietam _sluggishly began to respond. The rest of the fleet had quickly come to the same conclusion, and were struggling to halt their inertia and turn around.

A pale, purple dot began to form on each side of the massive ship's flanks, right where the huge cannons were located. Hawkins saw it and swore, egging the navigation crew on to get them _out._

The dot began to grow, larger and larger, growing deeper and brighter in color simultaneously as it expanded. Hawkins' movements slowed as he was almost hypnotized by its strange light, staring at it with wonder.

The light crew until it seemed to fill the whole world.

And then the guns fired.

A massive flash of light swept across space in a split-second, shaped vaguely like a large disc with lightning crackling at its interior. Faster than the eye could track, it passed over all of the ships in the Allied fleet in one fell swoop before vanishing into the distance.

The bridge lights shut off, all the screens on the consoles going dark. The crippling effect of the ion pulse shut down nearly every system onboard the Allied ships, leaving them floating helplessly in space. Gungnir's hologram vanished, the AI core overloaded by the sudden ion pulse.

The _Antietam _listed out of control, her engines sputtering helplessly before dying. The remainder of the ships in the Allied fleet were in the same position, structurally whole, but unable to move or fight back.

And the Imperial fleet moved in for the kill.

Hawkins, sitting in the darkness of the bridge, had time to mutter a single, heartfelt curse before a wave of incoming turbolaser fire from the massive ship tore the _Antietam _apart.

000

CSS _Inexorable_

"By the rings, what devilry is this?"

Ri'shek sat in his command chair, mandibles slack as he gaped at the sudden, brutal turnaround of the battle. At first, things had been going well, the Allied fleet scoring a decisive first hit.

But then, as the _Inexorable _began to return to the fray, that monstrosity had arrived, bringing with it a weapon that had left the Allies' ships floating helpless in space.

The Imperials gave no quarter. The huge ship and the smaller ones that had staged the assault swooped in, firing like madmen on the helpless Allies. Ri'shek swore and clenched a fist over his chest. This wasn't battle. This was slaughter.

"Cowards," one of the bridge officers seethed. "They would not even allow their enemy a chance to fight back? They have no honor!"

There was a chorus of growls and roars as the rest of the crew agreed, pledging vengeance in their native tongue.

But vengeance would have to wait.

"Turn us around," Ri'shek ordered. "We must return to Garnett Station."

There was a momentary shocked silence. "Shipmaster, are you serious?" asked Bras Undum, at Weapons. "We must avenge our comrades!"

"We will avenge nothing if we foolishly charge in and get ourselves killed!" Ri'shek snapped back. "Did you not see what that vessel can do? We would be slaughtered if we attempted to attack it on our own. No, we must withdraw. Our part in this battle is over for now. We must wait…until the opportune moment."

There was a series of grumbles at that, but all of the crew saw the wisdom in his words. Elindar calculated a precise Slipspace jump to take them back to Garnett Station, and before they entered the portal, the last thing Ri'shek saw was a field of burning Allied ships, floating like a graveyard above the planet.

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga _(DDE-442)

Garnett Station, New Arcadia

Captain Hannah Farley and the rest of Task Force Valley Forge watched the battle unfold from a distance, but the effects were no less devastating for them, the separation not shielding them in the least from the terrible feeling of dread that crept across the bridge as the slaughter began.

What was that thing? What was this ship that could cripple an entire squadron of capital ships? Hannah's lip trembled and she balled her hands into fists as the Imperials continued their wanton slaughter of the helpless Allied vessels.

They would pay for this. There was no question about it. They would pay in blood for every soul they slaughtered onboard those defenseless ships.

But how? Hannah slumped back into her command chair, the rest of the bridge crew watching her silently. How would the remnants of Task Force Valley Forge and a single surviving Reverence-class cruiser be able to take on such a massive force?

Hannah bit her lip. When she had first heard that they were being sent back to aid in the evacuation, she had been indignant that they were being denied a place in the battle. Now, however, she was caught between anger and thankfulness.

Part of her, no matter what logic said, wanted to have been there, to have been able to help, to _do something_, no matter how small, instead of sitting hundreds of thousands of kilometers away and watching the fleet get butchered. At least then she could have died with the comfort of knowing she had tried.

But the other part of her mind quickly brushed that lunacy aside. Think, she told herself. They taught you this in the Academy, how to conduct guerilla war. She was now the highest-ranking UNSC Naval officer in the system, and she could command Task Force Valley Forge very effectively. They could still be of use; executing hit-and-run attacks on the Imperial fleet, sending supplies down to the planet below. Now that the civilian evacuation was almost complete, they would be free to wage war.

That wouldn't bring back the dead sailors, but it would hopefully bring some small measure of revenge to allow their souls to rest easy.

The CSS_ Inexorable _returned to Garnett Station a minute later, its hull unscarred and smooth.

_Cowards_, that rogue part of Hannah's mind snapped again. They weren't under orders to assist the evacuation like she was. They could have fought, have made a stand.

But once again, the angry, bitter voice was quickly quashed. Ri'shek was no fool; he knew the chances of surviving direct combat against such a massive vessel, and had wisely decided to play the part of the fox who ran away. Knowing Sangheili honor systems, he was likely as upset as she was, if not more, about that brutal necessity.

"Ma'am?" said a voice, and Hannah looked over to see Ensign Karina Talbot at the Sensors station looking up.

"Yes, ensign?" Hannah said.

"We have a single contact, slipping in near the spaceport," she said.

Hannah blinked in surprise. One ship? Who could that be? Definitely not UNSC reinforcements.

Probably just some civilian freighter that had been in Slipspace travel for the past week and knew nothing of the events that had transpired. Despite it all, she couldn't help but give a small snort of amusement. What a rude awakening they were about to get.

"Show me," she said, and the forward viewscreen snapped on to display a bubbling white Slipspace portal opening near the spaceport. After a few seconds, a ship shot out.

Hannah blinked again. That was _definitely _not a civilian freighter.

The ship was matte-black, angular in form, and nearly the size of a frigate. It barely registered on the sensors board, and had it not been for the IFF beacon it was broadcasting, she likely wouldn't have known it was there.

Hannah gasped softly. There was only one class of ships in the UNSC that looked like that.

The _Thermopylae_-class frigate. Designed for the transportation and facilitation of Spartan-IV supersoldiers.

Hannah allowed a wide grin to break across her features. Spartans.

They might just have a chance.

"Ma'am," said Lieutenant (jg) Ramirez. "They're initiating a COM link."

"Patch them through," Hannah said automatically, swiveling her chair to face the bridge's holotank.

A second later a hologram of a tall man in a black naval uniform shimmered to life. "This is Commander Joseph Oberlander of the ONI _Paragon_. To whom am I speaking?"

"Captain Hannah Farley, UNSC _Ticonderoga_," Hannah replied automatically.

Oberlander nodded. "And would you mind telling me just what in the hell happened here?"

For a few minutes, with short, succinct statements that summarized the story as quickly as possible, Hannah explained their predicament. Oberlander's eyes widened at the mention of the enemy supership, and he swore quietly as she explained how it had rampaged through the fleet.

"Well," he said quietly after she had finished, "it looks like you hold rank here. What do you intend to do about it?"

Hannah frowned, and then an idea struck her.

It was risky. Dangerous. Insane, even.  
>But then, Spartans were designed with those missions in mind, no?<p>

"May I speak to your Spartan team leader?" she asked.

Oberlander frowned suspiciously. "Can it not come through me?"

"I would prefer to talk to them myself," Hannah said.

Oberlander exchanged words with someone off-screen before muttering something to himself and then looking up. "Very well," he said, "but I will remain here."

"That's fine," Hannah assured him.

A few seconds later, a Spartan walked on-screen.

Hannah drew in a sharp breath, as did most of the bridge crew. While the Spartan-IV program was much more publicly known about than its predecessors, very few had still actually seen a Spartan outside of holo-movies and documentaries about the War.

The woman on-screen was clad from head to toe in a suit of dark blue and black MJOLNIR Mark VIII body armor, save for her helmet, which she had tucked under her arm, allowing her auburn hair to hang loosely around her brow and emerald eyes. A magnum was clipped to her waist, and a combat knife on her forearm.

She instantly saluted. "Ma'am," she said. "Petty Officer First Class Katrina-D089, reporting for duty."

Hannah returned the salute. "At ease, Spartan," she said.

Immediately, Katrina dropped her arm and stood briskly at attention. "Orders, ma'am?" she asked.

Hannah nodded slowly. "I do believe I have some. See that ship over there?" she asked, pointing in the general direction of the Imperial fleet.

There were dozens of ships there, but really only one that she could have been referring to. Katrina's eyes widened for a moment at the sight of the five-kilometer-monstrosity before she quickly turned back, all business once again. "Yes, ma'am."  
>Hannah leaned forward, allowing herself a small smile. "You're going to board it."<p>

**A/N: Meh.  
>Don't really like. My muse wouldn't let me rest until I finished this, though, so I felt like it was kind of rushed. <strong>


	13. Opening Moves

Chapter XIII

**A/N:  
>Review responses: Yes, I am aware that I called the Ranger in Chapter X both Isaac and Thomas. To be clear, his name is Thomas. I had originally intended to call him Isaac, but then remembered that I already had a SPARTAN by the same name, and decided not to repeat myself. I went back and thought I changed everything, but apparently I missed one mention of his name as Isaac. <strong>

**Yes, Anakin and Ahsoka will feature heavily in the next chapter.**

**I am also aware that I screwed up majorly in the ODP math; that's what I get for trusting Halopedia.  
>Anyways, here's the next chapter. Rather long, but bear with me. Now with 5x more explosions!<strong>

**Disclaimer: I am wanted by the UN for epicness exceeding the legal limit. I have driven every sports car made since 1960 and eaten the flesh of twelve animals from every continent. I have a pet leopard named "Foozles." I have played pool on top of Mount Everest and barbequed on the surface of the moon. I also own both the Halo and Star Wars universes. **

**And I have never told a lie. Evar. (sarcasm….is good….)**

GNR _Resolute_, high atmosphere

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

"And I'm saying that they need our help! After all they've done for us, we need to do our part!" Anakin protested, waving an arm into the air.

Admiral Wulf Yularen folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head slightly, staring at the emotional young Jedi Knight that stood before him. "And how, exactly," he began slowly, choosing his words carefully so as not to provoke an outburst of wounded pride from Skywalker, "do you intend to combat the Imperials when our troop strength consists of approximately twenty-five hundred clones, barely sixty percent of which are unwounded and combat-ready, and two Jedi?"

Behind Anakin, Ahsoka Tano bristled slightly at a perceived insult. "Two _accomplished _Jedi, thank you very much," she said airily.

Anakin raised a hand. "Easy, Snips," he said, and Ahsoka subsided with a grumble. Anakin turned back to face Yularen. "You know as well as I do that numbers are not the only factor in a battle. How your forces are deployed and utilized makes much more of a difference in the outcome of the battle than sheer numbers alone."

Yularen sighed, rubbing his forehead. "True," he said, "but numbers always help."

Anakin began to speak again, but Yularen raised a hand, cutting him off. "It's not that I don't have faith in your ability to effectively lead the clones-I've worked with you enough to know that the two of you are capable-"

"_More _than capable," Ahsoka interjected with a hint of wounded pride.

"More than capable of performing such a task," Yularen conceded, "but the fact remains that our forces are far from full strength. The _Resolute _itself is battered and beaten; our clones are tired and weary. Not to mention the fact that we have never worked with this 'UNSC' in tandem before. We don't know how they work, how their tactics play out. Our presence in the battle may prove more of a hindrance than a help, especially since the bulk of their fleet just sacrificed themselves in orbit to secure our escape."

Anakin winced at that last point; the destruction of the Allied fleet by a new _Subjugator_-class cruiser had been a wrenching pain, especially to him and Ahsoka, who had been operating under the assumption that all of the _Subjugator_s had been destroyed. The sight of another one of the massive superweapons brought back memories of the _Malevolence _mission, memories he would prefer remained dormant, as well as serving as yet another reminder of Sidious' betrayal.

"Even so," Anakin said, "it's not right for us to remain safe and secure while they bleed and die for us again below. You may decide to stay above, but as Jedi, it is our duty to aid our allies."

But even as the words left his mouth, Anakin regretted them. He began to usher a hasty apology, but Yularen spoke first.

"Do not presume to lecture me on morality!" Yularen hissed in a moment of uncharacteristic anger, his eyes flaming. "I've been fighting wars since before you were born, boy!"

The two men stared at each other for a moment, fists clenched and eyes locked before both looked hurriedly away. "I'm sorry," Yularen said, "I did not mean offense."

"No, no, it's fine," Anakin assured him hurriedly. "It was my fault."

But even as an awkward silence descended on the bridge between the two men, Anakin couldn't help but feel shame. Jedi were not supposed to let emotions get the better of them.

And yet, Yularen was acting on edge, too. Anakin sighed. This whole "refugees from a government that had betrayed them" thing was really starting to wear them both down.

"Nonetheless," Anakin said cautiously, "I cannot in good conscience allow men to die for me while I remain aloof. Ahsoka and I will go, and take all battle-ready clones with us."

Yularen gave a deep sigh, burying his face in his hands for a moment before finally complying. "Fine," he said in a weary voice far beyond his years. "Take them. Go and fight and win. You have my assent."

"Thank you, Admiral," Anakin and Ahsoka responded as one.

"Don't thank me yet," Yularen said ominously. "Just…try not to die, alright?"

000

New Arcadia, Illerean Subcontinent

1509 hours, March 30th, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

Smoke rose over the Nylson Fields outside the city of Emerald Haven in twisting black columns like the souls of those who had perished reaching up with clawed, insubstantial fingers at the darkening sky. In stark contrast to the black smoke, the shattered white hulls of Imperial Acclamator-class assault ships lay in the midst of smoking craters, their structural support ribs forming the skeletons of a massive graveyard.

Major General Luke Harth of the UNSC Marine Corps, 43rd Division, 12th MEF, lowered his set of macrobinoculars and leaned against the railing on the top of his C5A2 Bastion Mobile Command Vehicle. The smoke columns were no longer as large now, but they still rose in the distance, dark and ominous against the sky.

Four Imperial Acclamators had been brought down by ICBMs in the opening blow of what would become the Battle of Emerald Haven, their wreckage scattered over the Nylson fields, bleach white bones against the black smoke and sea of waving golden grasses.

Unfortunately, four ships was only a fraction of what the Imperial landing force truly was. Nine more Acclamators had landed in the time since, fending off the incoming missiles to land and disgorge thousands upon thousands of stormtroopers and their supporting air and armor assets. The Imperials had been busy, constructing an FOB out of pre-constructed parts brought down by starships in the midst of the ship graveyard, capitalizing on what little cover existed on the rolling plains.

It was now only a matter of time before they struck.

It was now Harth's job to make sure that the UNSC struck first. Already, plumes of dust were rising along the three main inter-province highways that funneled into Emerald Haven where armored convoys from the 544th Tank Battalion were rumbling over the plains to launch a preemptive strike on the Imperials as they began to solidify their position on the planet. While the battalion had a scouting/recon force of several Gauss-equipped Warthogs, the bulk of the attacking force was composed of the new M808C Super Scorpion MBTs

The 544th was only going to be engaging briefly, a skirmishing blow to gauge the strength of their adversaries. That didn't mean, however, that they couldn't try to put as much hurt as possible on the enemy.

Which was why they were also being supplemented by several squadrons of F-86E Strike Hawks, the strike fighter variant of the F-86 Goshawk, from the 18th Air Wing. Their effectiveness would be limited by any triple-A defenses the Imperials would set up, but no commander worth his salt would ever advance valuable armor columns without air support.

Harth blew out a breath and turned away from the railing, climbing back down a ladder and through a hatch, closing it behind him as he entered the C5A2.

The interior of the Bastion was alight with the soft blues, greens, and yellows of instrument panels everywhere. A large holographic table and tactical data screen stood in the center of the room, displaying information on all sensor contacts within range. The data screen represented an aerial view, while the holotable showed a topographical model of the area. On each of them, the lines of advancing columns of UNSC armor were represented in green, whereas the Imperial landing zone was a bright red. A crew of half a dozen techs supplemented by a dumb AI ran the Bastion's subsystems, and another half a dozen Marines outside with an M12 Warthog FAV provided security.

The scout elements of the 544th were now only a few minutes away from cresting the rise that the Imperials had set down behind. A great roar suddenly reverberated through the vehicle, accompanied by a trembling vibration and several screams as the first squadrons of F-86E's began to streak overhead.

"Sir," one of the techs said. "All armor elements are reporting they are ready to engage. They're asking for a final confirmation of ROE."

Harth nodded and stood in front of the holotable, glancing down at the holographic representations of the UNSC tanks rumbling across the plains, and the fighters streaking overhead. "Weapons free at first positive enemy contact," he said. "But tell them to keep their time limit in mind. We've got a limited window of opportunity here; let's make the most of it."

"Sir," the man said curtly, returning to his console.

Harth took a sip from his water bottle and surveyed the battlefield. "Alright, people; let's do this thing."

000

Nylson Fields

The IP86 highway was a mammoth affair, a six-lane (in either direction), free-speed road that was a part of the vast Inter-Province highway system of New Arcadia. It was one of three such highways that passed through Emerald Haven, and each day saw thousands upon thousands of vehicles in traffic.

Today, however, the vehicles that roared up and down its vast expanse were not civilian commuter cars. Instead, a column of UNSC armored vehicles rumbled down the highway, a frightening display of power. The column consisted of no less than three tank squadrons of six tanks each forming the bulk of it, with a wedge of Gauss-equipped M12 Warthog FAVs providing the vanguard. The same scene was repeated across the other two inter-province highways that came through Emerald Haven.

A magnificent sight; but sitting inside the cramped interior of one of the M808C Super Scorpions midway through the convoy with the word "Eviscerator" spray-painted on the side, cursing like a lumberjack at the heat and sweating like a mule, Specialist Nathaniel Adams was less than impressed.

A bulkier version of the standard M808B designed with anti-armor work in mind, the M808C Super Scorpion had a visibly shorter, wider profile and a turret set in the center of the vehicle as opposed to mounted on a pedestal in the back, all to make it easier for the tank to assume "hull-down" positions behind cover. And where the M808B's engine had been designed for reliability, able to run for thousands of miles without requiring an overhaul, the M808C's engine was built for one thing and one thing only: raw power. The engine was powered by two hydrogen fuel cells and supplemented by diesel for when boosts of speed were needed. It was capable of propelling the eighty-ton M808C at speeds of nearly thirty miles per hour for excess of six straight hours. All of that added up to make quite a formidable vehicle. Adding a massive M98A2 125mm smoothbore cannon and a .50 caliber coaxial machine gun helped, too.

But despite all of those features, and the massive amounts of technology stuffed inside, Nathaniel vented to himself, growling in irritation as a salty droplet of sweat fell into his eye, stinging like mad and forcing him to remove his eyes from the targeting computer to wipe it away, it still didn't change the fact that the REMFs that commissioned the thing into existence thought that it had been a good idea to design an eighty-ton piece of steel with _no damn air conditioning_.

The Illerean subcontinent of New Arcadia was a zone that was nearly tropical in its clime, which meant that even in early spring, it was hot outside.

Sitting inside a buttoned-up steel and titanium portable oven, they may as well have been operating in the Sahara desert.

Nathaniel cast a longing glance at the hatch on top of the tank's turret, hoping for just one blessed gust of air to blow through and stir the humid, stuffy air inside the tank. At the speed they were advancing-nearly thirty miles per hour-some serious breeze could be generated.

Unfortunately, he was to have no such luck. The sergeant's orders were clear; they were advancing into enemy territory, and an attack could come at any moment. They would have to be buttoned up and prepared.

Nathaniel was in a quandary; he couldn't find any fault with his commander's position. In fact, it made perfect sense.

But that still didn't change the fact that it was hotter than the surface of the sun inside that tank.

Maybe joining the tank corps had been a bad idea after all, Nathaniel mused, wiping a sheen of sweat away from his forehead. He had been born and raised on Kendas VI, a planet with a principally subarctic and arctic clime. He did _not _tolerate the heat well.

The tank pitched slightly as it ran over a pothole in the road, causing Nathaniel's forehead to slam into the targeting computer. He swore at the sudden burst of pain and leaned back, rubbing his head.

"Come on, Tat, take it easy," he complained to the tank's driver, Private Dmitri Tatrov.

"Ah, shaddup," Tatrov responded immediately. "You gunner. Me driver. Understand the difference, or do you want to give it a try yourself?"

"Yeah, whatever," Nathaniel retorted, unable to resist the urge to continue the argument; the cramped quarters of the tank combined with the stiflingly overpowering heat made it a mere inevitability until tempers between the crew flared. "Didn't they teach you to avoid potholes when you learned how to drive the tank?"

Tatrov was on the verge of responding with another scathing remark when the third and final member of the crew put an end to the childish argument.

"Shut up, both of you," ordered Staff Sergeant Anthony Dufresne in an irritable tone of voice. "Focus on killing the enemy, not each other."

"Yes, sir," Tatrov and Nathaniel both said reluctantly to the tank's commander. After several years of sharing the cramped, dusty interior of a tank with a man, you quickly become aware of all of his habits, and it had only taken a few weeks for Nathaniel to learn that Dufresne would brook no dissension inside his tank, the Eviscerator.

Feeling slightly bored, Nathaniel opened up a private channel on his CNM to his best friend, Specialist Rocky Davies in the tank across from him.

"Yo, Rock," he said, "how much you wanna bet I take the most kills today, eh?"

There was a laugh. "Boy, you got a lotta guts makin' a call like that," Davies replied, and Nathaniel grinned at the sound of his friend's voice.

"Five beers," Rocky said.

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. "You're on." Both laughed, and the channel was closed.

The armored column was getting nearer to the Imperial base, now, approaching the final rise before the graveyard of Acclamators where the invaders had set up camp. The surviving Acclamators were currently engaged in ferrying supplies and troops down from orbit, but the UNSC had wisely chosen to attack during the time when they were gone.

There was a roaring sound above as the first squadrons of F-86Es began to streak overhead, followed by an unfamiliar whine and the explosions of missiles. Curiosity overcame Nathaniel's good sense, and he wormed his way out of his seat towards the hatch, squirming past Dufrense and ignoring the man's protests to throw open the hatch and stand up, staring into the skies overhead.

What he saw left him speechless.

The air was filled with dozens upon dozens of craft, all of them swooping and turning and diving in vicious circles around their adversaries while trading fire. Orange tracers and green lasers alike streaked back and forth between the circling craft, accompanied by the smoke trails of UNSC missiles and the strange glowing streamers that followed the Imperial ones. Occasionally, either side would score a hit, fireballs marring the sky before sending debris raining down below.

The Imperial aircraft were unlike anything he had ever seen; they were massive and bulky, bristling with weapons and with strange wings that formed an upside-down V from the top of the body, terminating in large ball-like turrets. They looked more like troop transports than actual aerial superiority craft. They didn't have any visible thrust vectors, but were capable of extremely tight turns and hovering, which meant they must have some sort of repulsorlift or antigravity technology.

_It's like the Covenant all over again, _Nathaniel managed to think dimly.

But the strange Imperial craft were not invincible; as he watched, a pair of Strike Hawks screamed past overhead, each deploying a single missile. The Imperial ship managed to avoid the first missile, but the second slammed into the craft just above the nose, detonating in a tremendous fireball that sent flaming wreckage plummeting down. One of the ball turrets landed on top of a tank before skipping off in a shower of sparks.

From where he was, it was hard to tell who had the upper hand. Neither the Strike Hawks, nor did it appear the Imperial ships were designed for air-to-air combat. The Imperials had the advantage of power and numbers, but the F-86Es were faster and, with their thrust-vector engines and forward-swept wings, extremely maneuverable. It would be a brutal fight.

"Nathaniel!" Dufresne's voice broke through his observation. "Get your ass back down here now!"

"Yes, sir!" Nathaniel replied immediately, slamming the hatch shut before he realized it and locking it. He contorted back into the gunner's chair and brought up the targeting computer again, preparing to engage.

By now, the convoy of armored vehicles had left the road and were rolling across the open plains towards the final ridge behind which the Imperial base stood. The Gauss Warthogs rushed ahead, climbing up the ridge and opening fire, white streaks slamming into Imperial vehicles below.

But they were only a skirmish force, and it was only a matter of time before the heavier Imperial vehicles began to push back. Several Warthogs exploded in balls of flame, and those remaining quickly and wisely turned tail and fled back down the hill, their turrets firing wildly behind them as they drew the Imperials down to clash with the Super Scorpions below.

"Enemy in sight!" Dufresne called as the first Imperial tanks began to crest the hill.

Nathaniel swallowed and rotated the turret to face the oncoming Imperial tanks.

They were squat, rectangular things, with a small turret on top, bristling with laser cannons. And they were _fast_; they floated just above the ground like Covenant vehicles, coming screaming down the hill to engage.

Nathaniel felt a vicious smile crease his sweaty, dirty face; _this _was what he was trained for. No more training exercises, no more drills. This was the culmination of all his perseverance. This was _war!_

The two armored columns clashed like hammer blows, tearing into each other with shells and lasers alike. Several tanks on either side succumbed to the onslaught in those first few seconds, brewing up in flames as their crew attempted to bail out and extinguish the flames on their bodies.

Tatrov spun the eighty-ton tank like a top as he fought to avoid the streaks of red lasers coming towards them. Fortunately, UNSC tank armor had been designed with the Covenant in mind, and was composed of several layers of reactive armor that chilled and then warmed immediately again once hit with an energy-based weapon, containing any damage. The Eviscerator plunged through a hail of laserfire and came out with only a few scorch marks.

Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief. The smaller lasers he didn't need to worry about, but the big ones that fired at a slower rate from the turrets on top of the tanks seemed like a different story, he saw, as one of them hit a Super Scorpion to their right. The tank's turret blew up, rocketing into the air.

Nathaniel swore, bringing the turret around to target the Imperial tank, not even hearing Dufresne's cry of "Imperial armor, eleven o'clock!"

_Time to see how well that armor works against our shells, _he thought.

"HEAT!" he said, and the voice-recognition software of the targeting system responded, the automated loading system selecting a High Explosive Anti-Tank round and inserting it into the breech. As soon as he got confirmation that the shell was loaded, he brought up the targeting brackets on his screen and placed them over the rapidly-moving Imperial tank. The automated targeting system recognized the intended target and compensated for the movement, leading the target.

Now all that was left was to fire.

Nathaniel's foot punched the toe trigger, and a blast of white noise filled the interior of the tank, followed by the acrid stench of cordite even as the automated loading system slid another HEAT round into the breech, ready to fire. Coughing, Nathaniel fought to keep his watery eyes open and followed the path of the shell.

The projectile flashed across the battlefield in a second, smashing into the Imperial tank broadside. The force of the impact of the 125mm HEAT round tipped the tank up on its side before a massive fireball smeared over it, blowing open the side armor.

"Hit 'em again!" Dufresne called. "Hit 'em again!"

Nathaniel obliged, punching the trigger once again. The M808C recoiled with the cannon as another 125mm shell erased the Imperial tank from this world forever.

"Yee-haw!" Dufresne yelled. "You got him, Nate!"

Nathaniel smiled viciously. Their first kill.

The tank lurched forwards as Tatrov gunned the accelerator to avoid a barrage of lasers, causing Nathaniel to slam his head into the targeting computer once again. Swearing, he watched as a Scorpion to their left exploded spectacularly under a flurry of laserfire.

Nathaniel didn't have time to swear revenge, as Dufresne was shouting again.

"Target!" he called. "Imp tank, nine o'clock!"

Nathaniel spun the M808C's turret to face the new threat, but before he could take the shot, the Imperial vanished behind another rise.

Not that there weren't enough targets to go around. Nathaniel spotted a pair of Imp tanks ganging up on another M808C and fired at one.

"Contact!" Dufresne reported. "Low on the right side! They're bailing out; move on!"

Nathaniel obeyed, selecting a new target and struggling to keep his aim steady as Tatrov whipped the eighty-ton piece of steel around as if it were a sports car. Luckily, the automated targeting system performed minor adjustments in aim for him, and his next shot was true, neatly taking off the turret of another Imperial tank. The cannon was reloaded two seconds later, and his next shot smashed through the weakened plating, detonating inside and tearing the tank apart in a brilliant fireball.

The hull shuddered and the temperature inside skyrocketed as one of the heavy lasers made contact on the rear of the Scorpion. The armor took most of the hit, and the laser luckily did no major damage to any of the subsystems.

In an attempt to avoid another hit, Tatrov rolled them up behind a small rise in a perfect hull-down position, where only the turret was exposed over the top of the rise. Nathaniel selected another target and fired, watching with an almost psychotic grin as the enemy tank brewed up in flames.

_This w_as power, he thought. Politicians and presidents with all their paper authority were nothing compared to the authority that flowed from the red-hot barrel of a gun. With every shot, every round, he held the strength to change the world, to _take life_, the ultimate power that man could achieve.

And so it went for the duration of the battle. The two sides swirled around each other like specks in a dust storm, firing and exploding in turn. The terrain was perfect for a tank battle; wide and open, with occasional stands of trees and ridges to provide cover.

The interior of the Eviscerator was a scene of chaotic order, with Dufresne's orders complemented by the steady blasts of the cannon, accompanied by the whining of hydraulics as Tatrov pushed the engine to its limits. They got lucky, managing to avoid the bulk of the lasers, taking several minor hits. Nathaniel strangely felt no fear; his body was a water park of adrenaline. Nothing mattered except the next shot, the next kill. The stench of cordite became almost an addiction as he wanted, he _craved _the next shot.

And so, he was almost disappointed when the order came to break off the engagement and return to the city. So much so that he rotated the turret completely backwards to fire a few extra parting shots as Tatrov and the surviving UNSC armor fled back along the plains.

Finally, they returned to the city, and Nathaniel was still buzzing with adrenaline, his movements jerky and quick.

He had survived! His first skirmish, his baptism by fire, and he was rolling away unharmed. He let out a whoop of exhilaration, and subsided to a mere grin as Dufresne focused a glare at him. But even his commander's disapproval couldn't fully contain his energy; he bounced on his chair like a toddler, full of the adrenaline that resulted from being shot at without result.

The armored columns withdrew back to Emerald Haven, under the cover of friendly air and artillery support, and Tatrov piloted the tank through the crowded city streets back towards the motor pool on the corner of 8th and Edmunds Streets.

The last few moments as the tank was parked seemed to take hours before the M808C was finally shut down. Nathaniel practically leaped out of his seat, clambering out of the hatch and swarming down the side of the tank.

All around them, more tanks were pulling into place. All of them bore visible damage, the scars of battle, ranging from minor dents and scoring up to one tank that had had its turret blown completely off, but was still otherwise operational.

As for the Eviscerator, it had taken several minor hits. Black laser scoring marred the otherwise perfectly tan hull, and near the back, where they had taken a hit from a heavy laser, a corner of the armor was melted into a black lump, the metal grating on the back curled up from the heat.

It looked bad, but Super Scorpions were renowned for their ability to absorb damage that would disable or destroy any other tank and keep on rolling. This would take a team of qualified mechanics a mere two hours or so to fix.

He was giddy. There was no other way to describe it. All the veterans' horror stories about the War seemed slightly less terrifying now, if this was the worst the Imperials could throw at them.

Nathaniel grinned, reviewing the after-action report that the tank's computer had delivered to his CNM, along with a record of all kills and the time at which they took place.

He skimmed down the list. Five mobility kills, two mission kills, and four catastrophic kills for a total of eleven. He grinned like a madman. There was no way Rocky could have topped that total.

He attempted to open a private COM channel to his friend to gloat over his victory, but got only static in return. Frowning, he attempted to fine-tune the channel, but got nothing in response.

_Odd_, he thought. There was no possible reason why Rocky wouldn't be answering his COM.

Unless…

_No_, Nathaniel thought immediately, instantly discounting that frightening possibility. _No, that's not possible_.

However, possible or not, the fact remained that Rocky wasn't answering. Confused, Nathaniel attempted to contact Rocky's commander, Staff Sergeant Greene.

Again, no response.

_No…_Nathaniel thought, his mind refusing to acknowledge the possibility even as ice gripped his heart. _No, please, no_…

Ignoring the calls from Dufresne to get back to the tank, Nathaniel stumbled forwards like a drunkard, his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers clenched into fists and his eyes darted around with feverish strength until they settled on a tank just rolling into the motor pool. It was a mess; the barrel of the cannon was warped and twisted, and a huge section of armor was blown off on the right front of the vehicle, revealing a gaping hole.

But none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the words painted on its side, "Charlie Foxtrot." That was the tank that had been operating alongside Rocky's; if anyone knew what had happened, they would be it.

"Hey!" Nathaniel called, his voice hoarse and ragged as he stumbled towards the tank. "Hey!" he waved his arms as the tank pulled into place and the hatch opened, allowing several BDU-clad figures to slide down.

"Whoa, there," the tank's commander said as Nathaniel stormed up to them. "No need to-"

"Never mind that," Nathaniel snapped. "Do you know what happened to Rocky's tank?"

The commander sobered up immediately, and that expression was all Nathaniel needed to know the answer.

The ice around his heart got colder.

Nathaniel didn't hear the rest of the man's sentence, only something about a land mine. He didn't need to hear anything else.

His best friend was dead. Dead. Gone. Never to return. Nathaniel reeled back, placing his hands against a nearby street lamp for support.

Images and memories flashed through his mind; Rocky sitting on top of his tank, grinning at his commission into the Marine Corps, Rocky grinning like a madman at the bar on base.

Nathaniel almost fell to his knees at the grief. _Gone_, he managed to think numbly. _All gone._

And to think he had enjoyed this! A wave of guilt swept over him. Up until they had returned, he had been _having fun._ He shuddered at the emotion that up until just a few minutes ago had consumed him. How could he possibly have enjoyed this?

And what about the Imperials? They had families and friends, too. How many lives had he ruined through an action as simple as punching a trigger?

"Nate, there you are," said a voice, and Nathaniel looked up, focusing to see through bleary eyes as Dufresne stormed over to him. "Are you alright, man?'

Nathaniel glanced at the face of his superior, the man's face wrinkled with concern, but all he kept seeing was the face of Specialist Rocky Davies, smiling and laughing as he always was.

And for the first time in ten years, Nathaniel Adams cried.

000

Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

_Subjugator-_class cruiser _Malice_

High orbit, New Arcadia

"…and I believe that concludes our tour, sirs."

Kehren nodded distractedly so as to make it seem like he was acknowledging the statement made by the young 2nd Lieutenant, but really all of his focus was still on the massive ion cannon that dominated the room they were in. After the _Malice _had nearly single-handedly destroyed the opposing fleet, Kehren and Ozzel had come over on a shuttle to personally congratulate the _Subjugator_-class cruiser's skipper, a one 2nd Captain Ardus Barralon. When they arrived, Barralon had offered them the opportunity to personally tour the starboard firing room and the massive ion cannon it contained, and Admiral Ozzel had accepted with an almost childlike glee. The three officers had been escorted into the heavily-protected room by a young 2nd Lieutenant and shown the basic workings of the massive cannon, from the process of firing the behemoth to the workings of the (comparatively) tiny fire control center from which the massive weapon was commanded.

"Well, in that case," Kehren said, careful to keep his voice neutral, "I believe it is time we return to the bridge."

In actuality, he wanted to get to the bridge immediately. He hadn't even wanted to go on this tour, but Ozzel had insisted, and so he had had no choice. Neither Barralon nor Ozzel seemed to think the remainder of the Allied fleets in-system were of any consequence, but Kehren knew that it never paid to turn your back on the enemy. He wanted to get to the bridge of the _Malice _immediately so he could observe the enemy's movements, had they made any.

"What's the rush?" Barralon asked, his voice dull. "Do you not find the workings of this magnificent vessel interesting enough?"

Kehren clenched his fists and fought to keep from rolling his eyes as he turned to face 2nd Captain Ardus Barralon.

"No," he said, "I have found this tour to be quite…_educational_. That having been said, however, I believe that it is time that we return to our jobs."

Ozzel frowned. "Is the enemy going to attack soon?" he asked.

"I don't see the harm in staying a few extra minutes," Barralon added, staring with delight at the massive cannon. "After all, the enemy would have to be complete idiots to attempt an assault on a ship this size with their pitiful forces."

Kehren fought to keep from screaming. Ardus Barralon was an extremely thick and dull-witted man, short and stocky with a face that had more wrinkles than the average Hutt. How he had made it so far up the ladder in the Navy, Kehren had no idea. He and Ozzel fit together like tweedledee and tweeledum.

"I don't know," Kehren said. "None of us do. And that is _precisely _why we need to get back to the bridge so that we can better respond if a threat arises."

No sooner had Kehren finished his sentence than their comlinks suddenly buzzed with the slightly panicked voice of a bridge officer. "Sirs!" he said. "We have enemy contacts, twenty thousand kilometers out!"

"What?" all three men said immediately, and Kehren resisted the urge to bite out a particularly bitter _I told you so_ remark.

"How did they get so close?" Ozzel demanded. "At last check they were on the other side of the planet!"

"No idea, sir!" the man responded. "They just came out of this massive white portal-thing right in front of us!"

Ozzel and Barralon traded dumb glances for a moment. "Please, sirs," the bridge officer pleaded. "Orders?"

Ozzel and Barralon both began yelling conflicting orders at the exact same time. Sighing in frustration, Kehren took control.

"Belay all that," he ordered as he began to run out of the firing room and towards the rail jet system that would take him back to the bridge on a hovertrain. "Move the flanking forces forward, and prepare to engage!"

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga _(DDE-442)

Captain Hannah Farley smiled as Task Force Valley Forge exited their pinpoint Slipspace jump a mere twenty thousand kilometers away from the Imperial fleet. Her plan was coming to fruition. The massive Imperial cruiser no longer had any reason to hide, and was sitting in space with a dozen Venator-class Star Destroyers to defend it.

"Status on the MAC guns?" she asked.

"Both guns are hot," Lieutenant Kerensky responded immediately. "Ready to fire on your command."

Gates materialized on the holotank and tipped his tricorn hat towards her. "The task force is reporting they are ready to fire on your command, ma'am."

"Good," Hannah said. She glanced at the tac screen where the Imperial fleet was milling about like an anthill that had been kicked open, attempting to turn and face this sudden unexpected threat. The massive cruiser was likewise attempting to turn, its huge girth sluggishly rotating.

"Tell the _Paragon _that they can launch the boarding craft now," she said to Ramirez.

000

ONI _Paragon _(TFG-014)

"Sir! Captain Farley is giving permission to launch the Foxbat!"

Commander Joseph Oberlander let out a sigh of relief. The events of the past few hours had all been building up to this moment.

The Foxbat boarding craft represented the pinnacle of current Allied technology, a curious mixing between Separatist and human design. Both species had brought their highest tech to the table in order to make it practically invisible. It was equipped with a visibility and sensor cloaking system, courtesy of the Sangheili, as well as covered with a coat of ablative stealth material like the kind used on ONI prowlers to defeat further sensor scans. For all intents and purposes, it was practically invisible, intended to be shot out of its parent vessel much like an SOEIV pod and allowed to drift towards its target before activating its one-use, extremely powerful rocket engines in order to close the remaining distance to its target in a matter of seconds. From there, it could either pass directly into the hangar or, if it was locked down, drill through courtesy of the plasma torch on its nose.

It was small, barely twenty meters long, designed to hold no more than twenty Marines.

Or six Spartan-IV supersoldiers.

"Patch me through to November Team," Oberlander ordered. A few seconds later, a hologram of Petty Officer First Class Katrina-D089 in full MJOLNIR MK VIII armor appeared.

"Sir," she said, saluting immediately. "We are ready to deploy."

Oberlander nodded. "That's what I hoped to hear, soldier." He paused. "Good luck to you. Ensign! Launch the Foxbat!"

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga _(DDE-442)

"Foxbat One is away!" Ensign Karina Talbot announced.

Hannah nodded. Their next move would have to be executed immediately; the timing had to be exact in order for the Foxbat to reach its target. "Inform the _Inexorable _that they may fire at will."

000

CSS _Inexorable_

"Shipmaster! We are receiving permission to fire!"

Ri'shek's mandibles stretched into an approximation of a human grin as his sensors officer announced the news. Finally, the time had come to strike back at the Imperial fleet.

"Is the energy projector ready?" he asked.

"Fully charged, Shipmaster!" came the response.

"Then fire at will!" Ri'shek thundered. "Our judgement shall split the heavens!"

On the ventral center of the massive _Reverence-_class cruiser, a small speck of light sprang into existence. That light began to intensify, building and glowing brighter and brighter until finally it could be contained no longer and sprang forth with the fury of the ages.

All of the _Inexorable_'s shields, weapons reserves, and discretionary power all drained into one brilliant lance of destruction. The bridge lights darkened even as the space outside lit up in a tremendous display.

The Covenant energy projector was without a doubt the most deadliest weapon deployed during the War, with a range exceeding that of Super MAC guns and the ability to cut any unshielded ship in half and glass entire planets.

The white-hot beam of pure energy flashed across the twenty thousand kilometers between the _Inexorable _and the _Malice _in the blink of an eye. The _Malice_'s shields flashed into existence, desperately attempting to repel the massive firepower, and they succeeded.

But only just. The sheer amount of energy in that one single beam of destruction overloaded the shielding of the five-kilometer long behemoth in a split-second.

But the show was far from over.

There was a flash of light, and a new sun erupted in the midst of the Venator-class Star Destroyers guarding the _Malice_.

The human prowler-vessel had discreetly laid five HORNET nuclear mines earlier in the day.

Five Venators were vaporized outright by the massive release of energy, leaving behind only a few solitary chunks of debris practically glowing with irradiation. EMP from the detonation spread to the others, disabling shields and any other electronic subsystems and leaving them helpless in space. They listed out of control, unable to arrest their movement.

And then the human ships fired. MAC rounds and Barrett missiles streaked across space towards the helpless Imperial Venators. Missiles blasted open armor plate while massive MAC rounds blasted gaping holes through their lengths. One Star Destroyer was hammered by four separate MAC rounds, and literally came apart under the impacts. Within five seconds, the volley was over, and the _Malice_'s bodyguard was utterly destroyed, leaving only a new belt of radioactive debris slowly drifting through space.

Ri'shek howled in victory, and the rest of the Sangheili on the bridge joined in, singing a hymn of celebration.

And the _Malice_, the ship that was responsible for the losses of an entire human battlegroup, was crippled by the EMP. Spiderwebs of electricity skittered across its hull as it listed out of control.

The humans had their opening.

Ri'shek clenched his fist over his heart. "May the fortunes smile upon you, demons," he declared, and the rest of the bridge crew roared their approval.

"Shipmaster," Elindar said. "The human commander is ordering us to begin the withdrawal."

"Very well," Ri'shek said. "Initiate the Slipspace drive. Our work is done; it is the demons' battle now."

The rest of the bridge crew gave solemn grunts of affirmative inflection. The demons were on the hunt.

The demons would not fail.

000

Foxbat One

Two thousand kilometers out from Imperial fleet

While the Imperials had experienced the terror of nuclear weapons and energy projectors for the first time, while the Venators had been wrecked by murderous MAC rounds, a small object had slowly closer to the massive _Subjugator_-class cruiser. At first glance, it appeared to be no different from the hundreds of other pieces of debris that floated through the system. But if one looked closer, they began to see that it was definitely not natural. Its lines were too smooth, its shape too planned, and a boxy engine assembly towards the end gave it away.

Inside the cramped bay of the Foxbat-class boarding craft, Petty Officer Second Class Matthias-D105 checked over his M55-A assault rifle one last time. Some would say that his habit of always checking over his weapon bordered on OCD; Matthias preferred to call it being prepared. He knew too many men that had died because something as simple as an inappropriately-loaded magazine that had stovepiped on their first shot.

Normally, as the team's sharpshooter, he would be going into combat equipped with either an SRS-99 sniper rifle or an M55-D Designated Marksman Rifle, but they were going to be boarding a ship, which meant that there was likely going to be CQC involved. In that case, he decided to go with a weapon that had a higher rate of fire while still maintaining effective accuracy, and there was no better weapon for that job than the M55-A.

Satisfied that his rifle was free of any glitches, he attached it to the magnetic weapons strip on the back of his green MJOLNIR MK VIII armor and gave his M6G magnum sidearm the same treatment while mentally going over the mission objectives. They were to board the enemy cruiser, neutralize any threats, and take over the bridge. From there, the Smart AI they had brought along would take over control of the ship's functions and return it to friendly space.

Simple enough in theory, but Matthias knew that no OPLAN every survived contact with the enemy. They would have to adapt and survive.

UNSC Special Forces improvised in adversity.

ONI Spartan-IVs _thrived._

In the bow of the landing craft, team leader Katrina-D089 watched as they drifted closer and closer to the crippled Imperial cruiser. "Are you sure we have to wait?" she said in an annoyed tone. "That thing could come back online at any moment."

"Katrina," came the response inside her helmet's speakers as Sarge, the team's Smart AI, responded. "I think I know what I'm doing. The rocket engines will only bring us fifteen hundred klicks at the most. We need to get inside that limit."

Katrina sighed, and had Sarge not been inside her armor and unable to manifest himself in holographic form, he would have smiled. Spartans were not known for hiding their feelings on a topic. Before she could speak, he continued, "and it is very unlikely that the Imperial ship will come online before we arrive. They took enough EMP to shut down half a continent."

Katrina grumbled something to herself, but subsided nonetheless.

It took another minute of drifting before they finally reached the outer edge of the rocket engine's operational range.

"Hang onto your helmets, people," Sarge announced using the external speakers on Katrina's helmet.

Immediately, all the Spartans magnetized their boots to the floor of the landing craft.

And not a moment too soon.

What had seemed from outside to be an innocent piece of drifting rubble abruptly came to life, rocket engines flaring to life on one end and sending it streaking forwards towards the _Malice_. The frame of the little ship trembled at the power of the engines, and Matthias blew out a breath. Now it was a race.

000

_Subjugator_-class cruiser _Malice_

"…and I'm saying that you're an idiot! How could you not have seen that coming?"

"Sir, we had never experienced any weapon of that type before. I had no possible way of knowing that the alien ship could take out our shields in one hit!"

"Well you should have fired first!'

"The ion cannons were not charged!"

"Well then use the turbolasers! There are other guns on this ship you dolt!"

Kehren sighed as Ozzel and Barralon continued to argue back and forth like a pair of fishmongers' wives. He was seriously considering taking the Emperor up on his offer to kill the incompetent old admiral, and maybe take Barralon with him.

He glanced around the bridge, illuminated by the dull red of emergency backup lights. Half the console screens were either dark or awash in static, and nearly every major subsystem had been knocked out. Luckily life support was still online, but other than that, the _Malice _was dead in space, drifting and defenseless.

Other Imperial ships had moved up to cover it since the cruiser's original bodyguard of Venators had been destroyed-no, _obliterated_-and then the enemy task force had suddenly and inexplicably vanished into another one of those odd portals that appeared to be a form of FTL, retreating back several hundred thousand kilometers away.

That bothered him; an enemy like this never retreated unless there was a reason, and he had no idea what that reason was. The nuclear weapons used by the enemy had utterly crippled the _Malice_'s electronics; the massive cruiser had been helpless. And then the enemy had simply left.

Kehren shook his head. What was even more disturbing was the appearance of nuclear weapons. Sure, he knew what they were, but they hadn't been used in the galaxy for hundreds of years! They were obsolete, uncontrollable.

And undeniably effective, he thought bitterly. Especially these nukes; they seemed to be much more powerful than any he had heard of before. They also appeared to have some sort of advanced stealth delivery system, since no incoming missiles had been detected when the space outside had suddenly exploded.

And then there was that deadly beam-weapon that the massive alien ship had used, overloading their shields in a single shot. He marveled at its design; so flawless, so elegant. It appeared to be much more analogous to their own laser weapons in its function, but with so much raw power behind it.

Yet another weapon to be wary of, Kehren thought, beginning to wonder if invading this 'UNSC' had been such a good idea after all.

Walking over to a bridge console, he leaned down to address its officers. "What progress?"

"Sir!" the senior operations officer replied. "We're still working on getting most of our subsystems back up. Life support is still working, and we've gotten sensors and intraship COM back up, but everything else is still dead."

"Any idea how long it'll take?"

The senior officer winced. "Unfortunately, no, sir. We've never dealt with a shutdown of this magnitude before."

Kehren nodded. "Very well," he said. "Continue working. And inform me when there are any improvements-"

"Sir!" cried an officer at the sensors post. "Sensor contact, thirteen hundred klicks out and gaining fast!"

"What?" Kehren said, and even Ozzel and Barralon stopped their arguing to look up in interest.

Kehren dashed over to the sensors station, skidding to a halt next to the wide-eyed young junior officer manning it. "Size?" he asked.

"Small, sir," the officer stuttered in response. "Very small. Fighter-size."

"Show me."

"Yes, sir." The officer brought up the image of the incoming contact, and Kehren frowned. It was oblong in shape, with a boxy engine assembly and a protrusion on its nose.

It appeared to be a boarding craft of some sort, with a stealth coating. Otherwise, there was no way it could have gotten as close to the _Malice _as it had without being detected.

Boarding craft. Kehren's blood chilled and he straightened up, whipping his head around. "What's the status on the hangars?" he asked.

"The magnetic containment fields are still up, but we can't close the doors from here," the senior sensors officer replied.

Kehren swore. "Get on the intraship COM and tell hangar personnel that they're going to have to manually close all hangar doors. Repeat, we have to manually close all the doors before they land!"

"Understood, sir!"

"Now hold on a moment," Barralon said, stepping up to him with a tone of wounded pride. "Since when do you control the crew of my ship?"

"Since you two decided to keep arguing and pay no attention to what was going on around you!" Kehren hissed, no longer willing to keep his emotions hidden.

"Let's not forget," Ozzel said. "That _I _hold rank here, and I say that we should-"

"Oh, do shut up!" Kehren said. Ozzel blinked in shock at the blatant insubordination, and Kehren grinned. The old man wouldn't dare do anything against him.

"I'm doing this for all our sakes," he said. "We don't know what they're going to board us with, but it's best that we just keep them out in the first pla-"

"Bogey has closed to five hundred klicks!"

000

Foxbat One

The small boarding craft streaked across space like a comet, and orange trail visible behind it. In the cockpit, Katrina watched as the _Malice _grew closer and closer until the gigantic ship seemed to fill the viewscreen. It still appeared to be under the influence of the EMP blast, as it was not firing at them, thankfully.

They rocketed even closer, screaming towards the flank of the ship and the closest hangar. It had a glowing blue-white magnetic containment field in front of it much like on their own ships that kept oxygen in and vacuum out while allowing ships to pass through.

But as they drew closer, the corners of the field began to darken, covered up by something that was gradually moving towards the center. Katrina frowned, wondering if she was seeing things.

And then she swore. The containment field was _not _getting darker; that effect was caused by the two massive doors sliding shut diagonally to seal the hangar up.

"Sarge!" she said. "Speed up! We've got to make it in there before they close the doors!"

"This is as fast as she can go!" the AI responded. "You'll just have to hope and pray!"

Katrina tensed. This was the crucial moment, whether or not the Foxbat was going fast enough to slip between the doors before they closed. If not, it would be a very messy impact.

The distance closed even further, and the hangar doors slid slowly towards each other as the hull of the _Malice _rushed up to meet them…

And just as it seemed like the doors would close and they would finish their lives in a spectacular fireball, Sarge managed to coax an ounce more of speed out of the dying rocket engines. He angled the Foxbat, flipping it on its side to give it a narrower profile, and fired the plasma torch on the front to clear a way.

The Foxbat slipped through just before the doors closed, its hull meeting the closing steel doors with an unnatural screech and the sickening sound of tearing metal. The doors closed just behind them, severing the engine assembly from the rest of the craft.

The Foxbat dropped like a rock, hitting the hangar floor and skipping across the surface. Inside, the Spartans' boots remained magnetically rooted to the floor, even as the boarding craft tumbled across the hangar floor, careening into droids and fighters alike. Explosions blossomed in its wake as it crushed a pile of fuel cells, and the Spartans were upside down for several moments before the Foxbat spun again after hitting a parked ARC-170. It tumbled end over end for a few more moments, leaving ugly white scars in the otherwise flawlessly black hangar floor before sliding slowly to a stop in a shower of sparks.

"Pile out!" Katrina ordered, slipping the safety off of her rifle. "Secure the hangar!"

Matthias was the first one out. He kicked open the bay door and leaped out, his boots making contact with the hull of the enemy ship for the first time.

The Spartans piled out of the landing craft, fanning out into a rough delta formation. Matthias's eyes flashed everywhere, taking in the layout. The hangar was rectangular in shape, with the vast majority of the space taken up by the black floor they now stood on. Several ARC-170 starfighters rested on the floor, as well as hover-trolleys and piles of equipment. A few droids stood around, staring blankly at the intruders. Above them, by the high ceilings, a labyrinth of catwalks stretched. And in front of them at the end of the hangar was a door that could only lead out.

Simple enough. Only one problem; the hangar was also swarming with white-armored stormtroopers.

The two sides opened fire at the same time. The Spartans' aim was perfect, every shot and burst felling a trooper with incredible lethality. They moved at incredible speed, making it nearly impossible for the Imperials to score hits. And even when the deadly lasers made contact with the armor, they were repelled by a shimmering energy shield.

Matthias rolled to the left, taking cover behind a cart and bringing his M55-A up. As a result of his marksmanship training, he had left the weapon in semi-auto mode.

That was alright. He was used to making every shot count.

He pulled the trigger twice on his first target. Both shots struck home in the man's center of mass, punching through the armor and sending him to the ground. He was out of the fight. Matthias shifted his aim in a split-second and fired again before the trooper's comrade could react, splitting open the man's skull with a single 7.62mm round that sprayed blood and cranial matter on the wall behind him.

"Grenade out!" yelled Isaac, and the CQC specialist lobbed an M9-HE-DP grenade towards a pair of stormtroopers hunkered behind an ARC-170. The explosion scattered shrapnel for meters and sent both men flying.

Katrina took Laura and Amir up the right side of the hangar, while Takedama and Isaac gravitated to Matthias's side. The two teams of Spartans leapfrogged up, each one covering the other as they advanced. The tactic didn't require conscious thought; it was a byproduct of years of training since childhood, and was executed with a speed and rapidity that would make ODSTs hang their heads in shame.

Matthias opened fire again, sending quick double-taps towards any opponents that dared show their heads. His accuracy, groomed by over a decade of training and combat experience, was perfect. Every time a white-armored head poked above the cover, it was quickly removed from its body by a well-placed round. Two stormtroopers attempted to make a break for another piece of cover, but were quickly cut down by Isaac and Takedama firing full-auto bursts.

A flurry of lasers hit Matthias's armor, dropping his shields by a quarter. He fell to prone and traced the lasers back to their terminus; a stormtrooper firing steadily from behind a stack of ammo crates. Matthias's snapshot was a product of Spartan reflexes; by the time the stormtrooper recognized Matthias's movement, the bullet was already through his eye. The man flopped backwards in a spray of red.

The hangar was filled with gunfire as November Team rapidly eliminated the tangos. It really wasn't even a contest, and the firefight was over in the span of a minute.

"Area secure," Isaac announced.

"Acknowledged," Katrina said. "Now we've got to get Sarge into their systems."

000

Kehren, Ozzel, and Barralon all watched with open mouths as the team of enemy commandos utterly wiped out the stormtroopers in the hangar in mere minutes. This was unlike anything they had seen before; the enemy commandos moved at nearly superhuman speeds, and their accuracy was unparalleled. Whenever they were hit by lasers, shimmering energy shields appeared around their advanced-looking power armor, preventing harm. Every burst they fired left another white-armored corpse on the floor. Within a minute, they had wasted the entire security detail of thirty stormtroopers without suffering a single casualty.

"What are they?" Ozzel breathed, his voice a mixture of terror and awe.

"I don't know," Kehren said, "but we can't let them on the rest of the ship. Operations! Vent the hangar bay!"

"Sir, are you sure that-"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Kehren yelled. "We can't let them get into the corridors!"

000

The Spartans advanced quickly through the hangar, keeping an eye out for any Imperials they may have missed. They were just nearing the door when a strange rumbling sound began to permeate the hangar.

"What the…?" Matthias muttered, glancing around.

"They're opening the doors!" Amir yelled, and Matthias spun around. Sure enough, the two massive doors that had slid shut to try and deny their entrance were now opening again to attempt to suck them back out. The Imperials were going to vent the bay to vacuum and hope that the Spartans were sucked out along with everything else.

"Magnetize!" Katrina ordered, and the Spartans all activated the magnetic soles on their boots, sticking to the hangar floor.

And not a moment too soon. The magnetic containment field had been disabled, and once the doors began to open just a little bit, the forces of physics took over.

A gale-force wind screamed through the hold, whipping fighters around like toys as the bay explosively decompressed. Anything that wasn't nailed down was ripped up and sucked greedily out into the howling dark, never to be seen again.

But the Spartans were unaffected, their MK VIII suits vacuum-proof and unwavering.

"Override the doors!" Katrina said over the COM, and began to advance towards a switch near the door at the end of the hangar. It was tricky work, walking in vacuum; in order to keep your footing and not be torn away, you had to individually release the magnetic soles on one foot at a time, move it forward, and then magnetize it again, repeating the process. It was slow, but effective, and in the space of thirty seconds Katrina was at a terminal on the wall that appeared to contain the master override for the hangar door controls.

"Help me out here, Sarge," she said.

"Certainly," came the response.

000

"Impossible," Ozzel whispered.

"Evidently not," Kehren countered, although he was as much in awe of the footage being shown on the security monitors as anyone else. Those suits they were wearing boasted energy shields and were immune to vacuum; who could say what other surprises they contained?

"Well, at least they're stuck," Barralon said in an inappropriately cheerful voice. "They can't possibly know how to work the override system."

No sooner had the sentence left the arrogant man's mouth than one of the armored figures on-screen walked haltingly over to the wall terminal. A few seconds later, the hangar doors began to slide slowly shut, and atmosphere began to be restored to the bay.

"You were saying, captain?" Kehren said derisively before turning back to the operations officer. "Can you stop them?"

"We still don't have control over the doors from here," the man said helplessly. "The master override terminal is the only way to open or close them!"

Kehren closed his eyes. "Then put the ship on combat alert," he said. "This is the most important vessel in the fleet; we _cannot _lose it. Do you understand?"

"Completely, sir," the officer replied.

"What do you mean by this?" Ozzel blustered, stepping forward. "Issuing commands as if you are in charge here. Do you understand what-"

Ozzel was cut off as a small black object hit him in the chest. "What the-?" he said, turning it over in his hands to examine it.

He froze. It was a blaster pistol.

"Why-?" he began.

Kehren tossed another pistol to Barralon and buckled a final one to his waist. "I suggest that you arm up," he said. "Because it looks like the fight's coming to us, whether you like it or not."

**A/N: They say 13 is an unlucky number. I hope this wasn't an unlucky chapter…**


	14. Rangers Lead the Way

Chapter XIV

**A/N: First things first: I'M SORRY, FF WORLD! I SAID THAT ANAKIN AND AHSOKA WOULD SHOW UP IN THIS CHAPTER AND I DIDN'T KEEP MY WORD! WAAAAHHH! PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!  
>But seriously guys; I'm sorry. I had planned on having A&amp;A show up, but I had also planned on posting this and what will be Chapter XV as one. However, the battle here ended up taking far longer than I thought it would, and I couldn't lump the two together without creating some sort of Frankensteinian monster-chapter that's 15K+ words, which I REALLY don't want to spend the time to proofread.<strong>

**So, next chapter, I REALLY PROMISE THIS TIME. **

**Anyways, in other news, Falling Skies is pretty cool. You should check it out.**

**Disclaimer: I wonder if lawyers actually peruse this site, looking for people to sue. Well guess what lawyers; all I own are my OCs and other original material! (gasp)**

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

Emerald Haven, Illerean Subcontinent

0022 hours, March 31st, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

Darkness fell over the planet of New Arcadia as it had throughout time immemorial, a black curtain of night descending over the world. On the peninsula of the Illerean subcontinent, the proud city of Emerald Haven was no exception. The soft velvet of the night pressed in with a cool breeze that came off the Perrel River, and on any normal night, the riverbank would have been lined with people enjoying the peace and quiet of the night while lovers stared up at the stars.

Of course, the key words were, "on any normal night."

The night of March 31st, 2593, was anything but normal. And the city of Emerald Haven was anything but peaceful.

The whisper of the night breeze was inaudible now, drowned out by the thunder of artillery. Streams of anti-aircraft tracers and lasers rose into the air with ominous crackles and whines, seeking out the shapes of aircraft from both sides that dueled in the skies above. Occasionally a flare or star shell would rise into the air, fired from a spotter to illuminate the ground for further bombardment, rising into the night and burning with an intense light before the artificial sun disappeared as quickly as it had came. The symphony of the battlefield was omnipresent; even in the lulls of the artillery fire the snaps and rattles of UNSC weaponry could be heard doing battle with the whines and hisses of Imperial lasers, punctuated by the occasional sharp blast of a mortar.

The battlefield had a sound all its own, one that veterans never forgot.

Of course, one of the reasons they often never forgot it was that it was the last thing they heard before the massive amount of noise caused them to go deaf.

On the second floor of a low office building, Corporal Thomas Kilgore, UNSC Army Rangers, mused on that old saying, "war is hell." Never having experienced it before now, albeit in a few skirmishes with xeno-phobic terrorists, he had taken the adage at its face value. Now, surrounded by a war in all of its full and terrible glory, the ever-present chatter of machine-guns and the deafening blasts of artillery shells hitting their targets, he was considering proposing an addendum to the saying; "war is really, really, really, _loud_ as hell!"

Thomas straightened up from behind the wall he was hiding behind, placing his M55-A on the frame of the long-ago-shattered window and squeezing off another quick burst at the mass of Imperial stormtroopers flitting around in the streets below. What with the uneven light provided by the mixing of darkness and the occasional overhead explosions of shells, even with his Low-Light Visual Amplification System activated, it was night impossible to tell if he actually hit his target. And besides, he had already ducked down, not a moment too soon as a burst of bright red lasers burned through the space he had just occupied, dazzling his eyes with their sudden brightness.

All around him, the Rangers of 1st Platoon, Delta Company, 175th Rangers Regiment were holed up on the second floor of this office building, doing their best to hold off the mass of Imperials that were attempting to advance down the street. The Rangers were taking shelter anywhere they could; behind shattered desks and windows alike. Shattered computers and office equipment rested on the floor, accompanied by mountains of shell casings. The repetitive crackle of assault rifles was omnipresent, accompanied by the staccato muzzle flashes, met and countered by the glare of red lasers streaking up from above. Several Rangers had already fallen victim to those deadly energy beams, their shields burned out and their armor blackened. A pair of medics were working on stabilizing a young woman in critical condition behind him, even as Thomas took a deep breath and summoned the willpower to stand up again, bringing up his assault rifle and acquiring a target. He fired a quick burst, and was rewarded with the sight of the targeted Imperial crumpling to the ground.

His hesitation to confirm the kill nearly became his undoing, however, as a burst of lasers slammed into his shields, dropping them to at least half. He swore and dropped as his helmet's HUD flashed a warning sign in the half-depleted shield bar as alarms whined in his ears, adding yet more noise to the cacophony around him.

He had been highlighted against the shattered window frame for only a few seconds, but the Imperials below had managed to fire off an accurate burst. The stormtroopers had gotten their position locked in solid.

"Sir!" he said over the COM, addressing Captain Kyle Barnett, the platoon and company leader, "they've got us locked in here! We've got to move or we're all going to get roasted!"

Barnett fired off a quick burst and turned to face Thomas, his expression hidden behind his opaque gold visor. "Negative, corporal," he said. "We've got to hold this street at all costs, or the Imps'll have a highway to drive straight into the downtown district!"

Thomas knew that Barnett didn't want to stay just as much as the next man, but he couldn't disobey a direct order. The UNSC forces all up and down this area were in the same boat; the Imperial attack on the city proper had come with surprising speed, aided by several large, six-legged walking tanks that had blitzed through the defenses in the outskirts and driven a wedge deep into the Eastern District. That attack had screwed up all cohesion in this section of the UNSC line as companies became separated from their parent units and mingled. The only thing holding them together now was a collective sense that they needed to hold their ground, and the men from different branches banded together to fight off the Imperial attack. The four companies of the 175th Rangers had gotten split up, and the COM networks was so choked full of battle chatter that trying to reach and rendezvous with each other was a futile effort. They had done the best with what they had, linking up with other separated troops and forming as cohesive a defense as they could. The melting pot of forces was visible even in this building; the Rangers occupied the second floor, a platoon of Marines were defending the entrance, and the last Thomas had heard, there was an Army sniper team set up on the roof.

The Imperial offensive hadn't faltered in the least, even after the bulk of those six-legged walkers were driven away by an armored counterattack, and the darkness became complete, they were still driving forward, supplemented by a seemingly endless swarm of stormtroopers and supporting armor.

Thomas shook his head. "Screw this," he muttered, and ejected his nearly-spent magazine, slapping in a fresh one and chambering the first round as he stood back up. "Come and get it!" he roared, bringing the weapon to his shoulder and opening fire in quick, accurate bursts on the mass of white-armored troopers below.

The firefight continued, never losing intensity as the battle raged on. For the soldiers on both sides, the battle raging in the rest of the city became irrelevant; all they could afford to focus on was what the enemy was doing in the next house over, across the next street, or around the next intersection corner. As Thomas sought cover yet again, he dimly remembered his history lessons covering the brutal fighting in a city called Stalingrad between the Soviets and the Nazis during the Second World War nearly six hundred years ago, when humanity had still been Earthbound. He remembered them saying that the fighting in the wreckage of the bombed city became so chaotic and ferocious that the Soviet commander at one point had reportedly said that every man was his own general, free to fight as best as he saw fit in the ruins of the city. He smiled, wondering at how history did indeed repeat itself.

And then a laser from an Imperial sniper rifle speared the man next to him, and the smile was wiped from his face in an instant. The man's shields flashed into existence and then vanished as he crumpled to the ground with a strangled cry.

Thomas dropped down, as did most of the Rangers in the room at the sudden sniper bolt. He accessed his CNM and brought up TEAMBIO, checking the man's vitals.

Amazingly, they were still there. Weak, but there.

"He's alive!" he yelled, and a medic came scrambling over to Thomas, halting under the window frame in a crouch. "Give us some cover fire!" the medic yelled.

"You heard the man," Barnett roared. "Give them some defilade!"

Reluctantly but obediently, the Rangers rose up and unleashed a hellish storm of fire in all directions to hopefully prevent the sniper from taking another shot as Thomas and the medic charged out side by side, slipping their hands under the man's arms and dragging him backwards out of the line of fire to rest against a support column. The medic quickly unsealed the man's helmet and peeled it off, revealing a young face with sweaty dark hair plastered to his scalp. There was blood on the inside of the helmet's visor, and around the man's mouth. Near his stomach, where the beam had struck, his fatigues were burned away and the armor plates of his suit were melted. The armor had taken the bulk of the beam-and probably saved his life by doing so-but some of the energy had still gotten through, leaving a blackened hole in his stomach, surrounded by flakes of cauterized blood. The medic quickly sprayed some biofoam into the wound, the expanding, tissue-regenerative fluid expanding and filling the cavity caused by the wound.

"He got me," the man coughed hoarsely, causing even more blood to be expelled from his mouth. "Damn sniper got me…"

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw the medic shake his head almost imperceptibly. Concerned, he opened up a private COM channel to the medic so as not to alarm the wounded man. "Is he gonna be alright?" he asked.

"Not unless we get him to a CCP immediately," the medic said. "That biofoam's only going to hold him together for another few minutes, and this is beyond my ability to treat under these conditions."

"Are there any nearby?" Thomas persisted.

The medic frowned. "Last I heard, there were a couple platoons of Army troopers holed up in a warehouse across the street; I thought I heard some COM chatter about them setting up a CCP, but I never got to confirm it," he said, referring to a Casualty Collection Point, essentially a field triage.

"We'll have to give it a shot," Thomas said.

"Are you insane?" the medic hissed. "You'll have to cross the street!" he gestured wildly outside to the street below, swarming with stormtroopers and UNSC soldiers alike, all trading fire.

"And he'll die if I don't!" Thomas protested. "You said so yourself."

The medic stood resolutely silent for a moment, apparently torn between his oath to save lives and his desire to preserve his own.

"I'll do it," Thomas volunteered.

The medic looked at him. The man's visor was polarized, preventing Thomas from seeing his expression, but the quizzical tilt of his head and the tone of his voice told Thomas all needed to know. "You're one crazy son of a bitch, you know that, right?"

In any other set of circumstances, Thomas would have smiled. Now, he merely grunted. There was a silence between the two, during which the sounds of battle outside seemed to grow even louder. Thomas risked another glance over the window frame; the Imperial advance appeared to be gaining steam.

The wounded man coughed up more blood, gasping for air as he faded in and out of consciousness. "It's now or never," Thomas said.

That seemed to convince the medic, as he sighed and contacted Barnett on the COM. "Sir! Permission to evac the wounded?"

Barnett looked around, taking in the scene. "Just him?" An artillery blast punctuated his sentence, and outside, a nearby building toppled as a support beam was destroyed, crashing down onto the street.

The medic shrugged. "He's the only one bad enough to merit it," he shouted back.

"You'll need at least a squad of men for that," Barnett replied. "We can't spare that manpower right now!"

"Sir!" said Sergeant Vasquez, Thomas's squad leader. "We could do it."

Barnett glanced back and forth between the two men. "How bad is he?" he asked.

The medic looked back and winced. "Not too good, sir," he replied. "Critical. I've temporarily stabilized him, but unless we get him under a proper surgeon within the next few minutes, he'll be pushing up daisies."

Barnett sighed. "Fine. Vasquez, you and your squad escort them to the nearest CCP. If you can, try and link up with us afterwards."

"Understood, sir," Vasquez said, beginning to rise. As soon as he did so, however, another sniper rifle beam lanced through the air just above his helmet, causing him to drop to the ground again with a heartfelt cry of "Shit!"

"That sniper's got us keyed in," Barnett grunted. "Nobody's going nowhere until we take him out." Barnett switched COM channels from SQUADCOM to LOCCOM, so that all local forces would hear him. "Donnar, Kruzowski, you get a bead on that last shot?" he asked, addressing the sniper team on the roof.

"Negative," Kruzowski replied. "He's a clever little bastard; shiftin' around so we can't get a positive ID."

Barnett swore, and then his head snapped up. "Kilgore!" he said, and Thomas looked up. "What, sir?"

"Run across the room!" Barnett yelled.

"What!"

"You heard me the first time, damnit," Barnett roared. "Run across the damn room! Someone needs to draw out that sniper or you guys'll never make it ten feet!"

Thomas sputtered. "That's suicide, sir!"

"You were all gung-ho to run across the street just a minute ago," the medic reminded him, and Thomas flipped the man the bird.

"Kilgore!" Barnett barked. "It's now or never!"

"Oh, this is such bullshit," Thomas muttered to himself, his hands shaking as he rose into a crouch and slid his M55 over his back. "What's plan B?"

"Plan B is to not screw up Plan A!" Barnett responded immediately.

With those comforting words in mind, Thomas sent up a silent prayer and got into position.

Thomas had been in track and soccer in his high school days, so he thought he was a pretty good runner, but the object here was not speed, but to draw out the sniper. In order to do so, he had to move fast enough so that it appeared his flight was genuine, but not so fast as to make it impossible for the sniper to take the shot.

Purposely slowing yourself down when someone was taking potshots at you was rather hard to do, Thomas found out. He had to resist the urge to make a full-blown sprint across the room, sweating like a mule as he ran in long, loping strides, his head forward, staring resolutely at the ground.

He made three-quarters of the way across, and was beginning to wonder if this was all for naught, if the Imperial sniper had recognized the diversion for what it was and left well enough alone. He was nearing the end of the room where a large vending machine sat-somehow with the glass still not shattered-against the wall, blocking anyone's view from the outside. If the sniper was going to take his shot, he would have to take it soon.

Thomas swore and stumbled as a ruby-red beam drilled into the floor near his foot, setting the plush blue carpeting of the office alight. His shields flared and dropped to zero as the laser scarred his boot. He fell face-first, putting out his hands to arrest his fall and dragging himself the next few feet behind cover where he put his back to the vending machine and tried to calm himself down as his shields recharged.

Dimly, he heard Barnett ask, "Did you guys get that?"

"Uh, negative," came the reply. "We've got a light rain moving in up here; the light's getting refracted."

"Oh, there is now way in _hell_ I'm doing that again!" Thomas swore, banging the back of his head against the vending machine.

"Uh, hold on, captain," Kruzowski said again. "Switching to thermal scans." There was a moment of silence, and then the spotter's voice returned triumphantly. "Never mind, sir, we found him. He must have thought he wounded your man, and he's waiting for you guys to go pull him out of cover so he can take another shot."

"Then peg him!" Barnett ordered.

000

On the roof of the building the Rangers were holed up in, two men lay prone, one armed with an assault rifle and clutching a small computer that was sheltered from the approaching rain by a hand, while the other fiddled with the bipod that supported the massively long rifle he wielded. UNSC sniper teams were renowned for their professionalism and skill, and this team had already claimed a dozen lives so far, mainly enemy platoon and target leaders. The goal of a UNSC sniper was to completely debilitate an enemy force before they even set foot on the battlefield, and while that goal may not have been accomplished, it looked like Corporal Steffen Donnar and Private Michael Kruzowski would have plenty of time to make up for it. Their latest target was an enemy sniper, just like them, who had been raising all kinds of hell with the friendly forces below. He was smart, changing position after each shot and firing from a new angle so as to better disguise himself from the enemy. The hunt had been an exhilarating one, and the enemy had finally made his mistake. He had gotten greedy, secure and comfortable with the fact that no one had found him yet, and decided that there was no harm that could come from staying in position to wait for one more shot.

It was to be his undoing. Kruzowski's M98 Cartographer spotting scope had a thermal scan function, and as the approaching rain cooled the night air even further, the enemy's signature stood out like a sore thumb on the twelfth floor of an apartment building down the street, settled in a grotto caused by a shell that had carved out part of the building's wall.

A good hiding spot, but not good enough to save him.

"Then peg him!" the Ranger lieutenant ordered over the COM, his voice rather loud in their helmets.

"With pleasure," Corporal Stefan Donnar responded, reaching out to make one final adjustment to the windage allocation on his SRS-99 sniper rifle. The Oracle-9 scope usually made such small adjustments automatically, but when this rain had moved in, the piece malfunctioned for some reason, forcing Donnar and his spotter, Private Michael Kruzowski, to perform such calculations and adjustments manually. It was not a big deal to them; ever since the twentieth century, when the art of sniping really began to become specialized and developed, snipers had been trained to take into account dozens of factors before taking the one vital shot that could change the course of a battle, ranging from humidity to barometric pressure, windage, bullet drop, muzzle velocity, barrel angle, distance to target, rain and other environmental differences, and a myriad of other factors. Donnar's mind factored the math like a calculator, recording all stats possible into his datapad.

"Final read?" Donnar asked as he placed his eye to the scope of the sniper rifle, blinding himself to the rest of the world. This, when a sniper placed their helmet visor to the scope and disregarded all else, was when spotters were most needed. If necessary, Donnar could perform the math and observations required to hit his target by himself; he had done so at regular intervals before. But this moment of ironically supreme weakness when a sniper was poised on the edge of taking a shot, was when he could not watch his back, which was the creed of any experienced marksman.

"Target hasn't moved," Kruzowski responded as he peered through the lens of the spotting scope. While their helmet's HUDs offered up to a 10x magnification factor, they did not have all the cool gadgets and applications that came bundled up in a Cartographer spotting scope. "Distance to target is steady at nine hundred twenty-six meters."

Donnar nodded. The laser rangefinder on his Oracle-9 had told him the same thing, but hearing the phrase verbally said helped confirm accuracy of data. And if there was anything snipers did well, it was caution.

"Preparing to fire on target," Donnar said, his voice quieting as he entered the sort of Zen-like state proficient snipers achieved before a kill. You had to plot the path of the bullet to its target over and over again in your mind, to see the perfect shot, in order to make any last-minute adjustments. Kruzowski noted the change in his partner's tone and said nothing, allowing Donnar to "do his thing".

The target still hadn't moved, apparently either supremely confident or asleep. Donnar refused to think of the enemy as any more than targets. It was all part of the mindset of a sniper; you had to ignore the fact that the man behind your scope was in fact a person, that he had a family, friends, maybe children that would mourn his loss. You had to dehumanize yourself in order to take lives in that manner; after all, it was one thing to kill a man when he is charging at you with an assault rifle in hand, quite another to pick a man off arbitrarily and without warning while perched atop some derelict eyrie a mile away. That difficulty had been erased somewhat when the Covenant had entered the picture, as it was much easier on the mind to kill faceless aliens who were committing genocide against you than it was to end the life of a fellow human being, but while the Imperials were alien in many ways, they were still humans.

It was now or never.

"Firing on target," Donnar said, his voice detached, emotionless. His finger tightened, slowly caressing the trigger, hovering on the edge of the pound and a half of pressure required to fire the 14.5x114mm round chambered inside the rifle.

Was this all a man's life was worth? Twenty-four ounces of pressure to erase years of existence? What was life, even, if it could be erased by a motion as simple as flexing a finger?

Donnar squeezed the trigger.

The SRS-99 sniper rifle had a long and rich history with the United Nations Space Command; first introduced in 2460, it remained in service over a century later. It was originally intended for anti-matériel work; the massive 14.5x114mm Armor-Piercing, Fin-Stabalized, Discarding-Sabot rounds it chambered mimicked the technology found in tank shells, and made the SRS an unholy terror against lightly-armored vehicles. Some field reports contained accounts of the APFSDS rounds being capable of gutting a Warthog FAV from stem to stern, including passing directly through the engine block. With the introduction of the Covenant and the energy shields they sported, it had quickly gained a following among UNSC snipers as one of the few weapons capable of penetrating an Elite's energy shields and killing it in a single shot, if aimed correctly. It had nearly-overnight replaced the M392 DMR as the primary long-range weapon of the UNSC, a role that it had kept since the end of the Human-Covenant War in 2553.

Some called it overkill. Donnar preferred to call it "insurance."

The SRS-99 fired, an earsplitting crack echoing through the air. The rifle kicked back against Donnar's armored shoulder, and Donnar kept his eye on the scope, following the vapor trail of the shot.

The 14.5x114mm round crossed the distance between the two snipers in less than a second. Donnar's calculations had been correct, and the round was directly on target. It took the enemy sniper directly in the upper torso, punching through the man's armor and leaving a gaping hole in his chest. The man fell backwards, his rifle clattering to the floor below, dead before the sound of the shot had even reached his ears; the reds, oranges, and yellows of his body on the thermal display slowly faded to subdued greens and blues.

"Confirm target eliminated," Donnar said.

"Confirmed," Kruzowski grunted. "He's deader than Elvis. Great shot."

Donnar said nothing, merely ejected the magazine and checked it. Three shots remaining. He slid it back in as Kruzowski reported their success. "Let's relocate."

000

The crack of an SRS-99 sniper rifle firing was audible even over the din of the battle raging outside, and a moment later the COM buzzed with the report that the enemy sniper was confirmed dead. Thomas Kilgore sighed with relief as he inspected his boot, noting with chagrin the scarring on the side. Had that snapshot been a bit higher, he likely would have lost his foot.

"Alright!" Barnett said as the Rangers that had pinned down returned to their feet and began to resume firing on the Imperials below. "Get out of here! We'll cover you!"

Thomas scrambled to his feet, scuttling over to the wounded man where the medic had produced a roll-out stretcher from his pack, snapping it open and handing the other end to Thomas.

"Up you go," the medic said, maintain a quiet monologue with the wounded Ranger to keep the man's spirit up. "Easy, easy, there you go," he said as they rolled the man onto the stretcher. As they did so, Thomas realized that he hadn't asked the man his name.

Private Alan Eastman, the man's HUD ID said. Thomas didn't know him personally, but that was no excuse to not give his best. Eastman was slipping in and out of consciousness as he clung to a thread of life, the wound in his stomach sapping his strength even as the biofoam holding him together expanded within him.

"You ready?" Vasquez asked, the other Rangers from Thomas's squad clustered around him. Thomas was able to pick out his friend Private Giancamo Feltrinelli among the crowd, and the Italian gave him an encouraging nod.

"Yeah," the medic replied as he strapped Eastman to the stretcher, lifting up his end. Thomas did the same, grunting slightly. "Let's go."

Vasquez split the squad into two sections, a vanguard and a rearguard to flank the two stretcher-bearers. The other Rangers gave them cover fire as they left the room, pounding down the flight of stairs to the bottom floor where a platoon of Marines from the 43rd.

"Friendlies coming down!" Vasquez announced in that booming voice of his over the COM.

Not that it would have mattered. Most of the jarheads were focused on staying alive, firing out the slits in the barricaded windows. Several wounded lay in a corner where another medic was tending to them.

The dead were left to lay where they fell.

The platoon leader turned to them as they entered, identified on their HUDs as 2nd Lieutenant Harrow. The Rangers, with their gold visors and urban ACUs, stood out like sore thumbs among the Marines.

"Where're you headed?" Harrow asked as she fired her assault rifle out the window at a group of stormtroopers trying to advance down the street. The Marine showed a bit more respect to the Rangers than Marines normally gave to Army personnel; Special Forces tended to get that respect from just about everyone they met.

"Got a man heavily wounded," Vasquez replied with a grunt, indicating the semi-conscious Eastman. "Heard there's a CCP across the street in that warehouse, was wondering if you jarheads would be so kind as to give us some covering fire."

"We'll do what we can," Harrow responded, but her sentence was cut off by a cry of "Incoming!" from another Marine. Everyone immediately hit the floor just in time to feel the building tremble as an Imperial heavy turbolaser cannon hit several floors up. Luckily, the structure was reinforced, so it didn't come tumbling down, but Thomas could hear the metal frame groan under the sudden stress.

Slowly, as masonry rained down outside, Harrow and the other Marines rose to their feet. "Shelling's been going on all night," she said, "but it got really bad in the past half-hour. The Imps must have moved up some artillery, because they've been dropping lasers around here like the rain."

Driven by curiosity, Thomas glanced outside, his LLVAS system allowing him to pick out what was going on outside.

The street was in chaos, covered with dead bodies from both sides. Rubble and debris lay strewn across it along with the burning wrecks of cars, behind which groups of soldiers huddled and fired at each other even as the rain began to beat down even harder outside, occasionally hissing and turning to steam as Imperial lasers screamed through the air.

"Marines!" Harrow called. "Covering fire, on my mark!" She gave a nod to the Rangers and turned back, clutching her rifle.

"Three!"

Thomas felt his hands begin to sweat inside his gauntlets. He tightened his grip on the stretcher as the squad of Rangers escorting them settled into a ready stance, weapons up.

"Two!"

Behind him on the stretcher, Eastman groaned and attempted to roll over before being stopped by the cuffs on his arms as he slipped back into unconsciousness. He was fading fast.

"One!"

Thomas crouched, coiling the muscles in his legs as he prepared to spring forward.

"Mark!" Harrow called.

The Marines opened fire, placing their weapons against the frames of shattered windows and heaps of rubble by holes blown in the wall and laying down a vicious field of covering fire on the Imperials scrambling down the street.

"Go! Go! Go!" Vasquez yelled, and the Rangers dashed forward, scrambling out the gaping hole where the door used to be and into the driving rain outside. The Rangers fired quick bursts from their M55s, hoping to capitalize on the defilade the Marines had provided and keep the Imperials cowering.

As soon as their feet hit the pavement of the street, everything went straight to hell.

An F-86E Strike Hawk flashed overhead, and a moment later, an explosion blossomed in the upper floors of a skyscraper directly above where an Imperial spotter team for their mobile artillery had set up. Windows shattered as flame expanded out, sucking in nearby oxygen to feed the flames before it was extinguished by the rain. Debris rained down, some chunks of steel and masonry as large as a man. Thomas ducked his head as they ran through the hail of rubble, praying that none of the larger chunks would hit them; it would be a damn shame to have survived lasers just to die from a falling rock.

Luckily, his prayers were answered, and none of the larger chunks hit them. Still, the Rangers were pelted with dust and debris, and a softball-sized piece of warped metal impacted on Thomas's right shoulder pauldron, causing him to grunt and stumble as his shoulder was numbed by the impact.

No sooner had the Rangers stumbled through the falling debris as they made it to the halfway point across the street then Vasquez roared over the COM, "Imp tank! Get down!"

Thomas's eyes widened, and the Rangers dove for shelter between the shattered hulk of a car in front of them and a mound of debris and rubble piled on top of torn-up highway sections behind them. They huddled back against the pile of rubble, hopoing the car in front of them would screen them from the tank's view.

The Imperial tank was sleek and quiet; it floated down the street with nary a whisper to betray its presence. It was a basically rectangular design, with two prongs on the front. The hull rose near the back where a turret was mounted. Several laser cannons emerged from low on the hull.

"Oh shit, oh shit," muttered Private Raymond Monton, beginning to shake back and forth. "Oh shit! Shit! Oh, shit shit shit shit shit-"

"Private!" Vasquez hissed. "Shut up!"

Monton turned to face the sergeant. "We're gonna die, Sarge," he whispered. "WE're gonna die we're gonna die we're gonna-"

"Private!" Vasquez practically roared, slapping Monton's helmet. The young private finally, blessedly fell silent. "We are _not _going to die-get down!"

The Rangers huddled their backs against the rubble pile as the Imperial tank's turret fired, a green energy beam cutting through the rain and dark to sweep over a pair of Army troopers running across the street, one toting an M41 rocket launcher. Their shields flared into existence and then vanished, overloaded instantly by the energy. The two troopers disappeared, their forms highlighted for a split-second.

"We might die," Vasquez finished, apparently not having taken the "inspiring confidence" class during NCO training.

"We've gotta move," the medic said, "we've got to get him to that warehouse!" He gestured towards the Hanson Warehouse on the other side of the street, where the Army CCP reportedly was.

"If we move, that thing'll cut us down in a second!" Vasquez argued. "Did you see that?"

"I saw it fine," the medic hissed. "But this man is _dying _right here!"

"That's no reason for us to join him because we were too stupid to think of a plan!" Vasquez insisted. "We have to destroy that tank before we can move."

"Destroy it with what?" the medic asked. "We have no heavy weapons other than a single GL," he said, gesturing to Specialist Rahjeed Upta, who toted an M55-B with an underslung 40mm grenade launcher.

"We'll think of something," Vasquez said, trying to sound confident. "We're Rangers."

"Yeah," the medic said. "Rangers. Not Spartans."

Thomas risked a peek around the car that screened them from the tank. "Uh, guys?" he said. "It's moving up."

Vasquez glanced out and swore. Thomas swallowed as the Imperial tank floated up the street, small-arms fire from desperate UNSC soldiers bouncing off its armor as it occasionally fired dazzling lasers into windows. A squad of stormtroopers moved in front of it, sweeping the area for mines as the tank roared towards them-

Wait. Thomas frowned. Roared? Imperial tanks relied on repulsorlift engines, which were almost completely silent.

Then what was that persistent roaring sound Thomas was hearing? He checked his helmet's hearing actuators, found that there was nothing wrong with them.

Then why was the sound getting louder?

"You guys hearing this?" he asked, having to yell even into the COM to make himself heard.

"Check your motion tracker!" Vasquez howled back.

Thomas's eyes flicked down to the circle in the corner of his HUD as he waited for the tracker to refresh. When it did, he blinked as he saw a massive yellow-friendly-signature.

It was almost directly on top of them.

"What the-?" Thomas began, rising up to look behind the mound of rubble.

"Get down!" Feltrinelli yelled, pulling Thomas back to the ground just in time.

The roaring culminated as an M808C Super Scorpion rolled up the debris pile behind them, rotating and leveling its turret to face the Imperial tank. The Scorpion was perched on the pile behind them, so that Thomas could literally look up and see the armored underbelly of the tank.

The Scorpion's coaxial fifty sputtered to life, sending hot shell casings raining down on the Rangers huddled against the rubble pile as the .50 caliber rounds cut the Imperial tank's stormtrooper escort to pieces.

Thomas wondered if the tankers even knew that there was a squad of Rangers sitting literally right underneath it, and he desperately hoped that the Scorpion driver didn't decided to drive over the rubble pile completely.

The Imperial tank reacted to the appearance of this new threat with admirable swiftness, scooting quickly to the side as its turret raked a green laser over the Scorpion. Thomas felt the ambient heat jump as the laser swept overhead, steam filling the air as nearby rain evaporated.

When the laser terminated, however, the Scorpion appeared to be unaffected. The reactive armor had done its job, and the only sign that the laser had ever touched it was a long black scorch mark across the front of its turret.

Thomas's eyes widened as he realized what the Scorpion's next move would be, and he desperately turned his helmet's hearing actuator down to its lowest level.

Too late. The Scorpion fired, a tongue of flame belching from the barrel as the tank recoiled back down the incline of rubble. Down the street, the Imperial tank dropped to the ground as the HEAT shell smashed into it before detonating in a fireball.

And then the soundwave from the explosion hit them.

It came first as a sudden blast of white noise, followed by…nothing. The effects of having a 125mm high-velocity M98A2 cannon fired only a few meters above one's head tended to be rather deafening. The shockwave rattled every bone in Thomas's body as pain blossomed in his ears, pulsing through his brain and giving him a headache for the ages.

Vasquez was yelling at him, his mouth moving open and shut soundlessly as he wildly waved his arms. Thomas couldn't hear him, but he got the gist of what the sergeant was trying to impart as the group of Rangers began to get up, taking advantage of the destruction of the Imperial tank to sprint the remaining distance across the street to the Hanson warehouse. Formerly used to store various dry goods, it was now the site of an impromptu Army command post and casualty collection point.

The column of Rangers ducked into the shelter of the building. Thomas's head was now ringing impossibly, but that was a good sign; it meant his hearing was returning.

"You alright?" the medic asked as he shifted his grip on Eastman's stretcher, causing the wounded man to groan.

Thomas knew he shouldn't smile, given the situation, so he made sure his visor was polarized before responding, "I can hear bells ringing."

"Friendlies coming in," Vasquez broadcasted over the COM, and led the squad of Rangers into the warehouse.

They were immediately met by a pair of Army troopers, beleaguered and visibly shaken, both griping assault rifles. Thomas's HUD tagged them as members of the 31st ID.

What the hell? The 31st was supposed to be on the northern end of the city. These guys were way off from their commands.

Thomas glanced around the room, and noted that the other dozen or so troopers guarding the shattered windows and gaping holes in the walls were a motley mix of all different parent units, mixed together and following the chain of command by rank alone. He even spotted a group of Marines sandbagging a window on the upper floor while their comrades hauled up an M247-H machine gun.

"What are you doing here-" the higher-ranking of the two troopers began, but the medic spoke up, cutting him off.

"We've got a man in critical condition here," he said. "Rumor on the COMs is that you fellas have a CCP set up here." He glanced around the room, seeing only weary soldiers trading fire with the Imperials still trying to advance down the street. "Is that true?"

"Yeah, it's in the basement," the trooper responded. "Follow us."

Thomas sighed in relief and checked Eastman's vitals once again as they followed the pair of Army troopers down a flight of stairs to the basement below. He was still hanging on, but just barely. He hoped that the medical officers presiding knew their stuff.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, revealing a large basement room, now reinforced by sandbags against the walls. While it had been previously used as a storage area by the company that had owned the warehouse, it had now been converted into an impromptu field hospital. Rows upon rows of cots filled the room, filled with wounded Army troopers, Marines, and even a few Chair Force jocks. All of them had varying degrees of injuries, some minor, some serious. Medics flitted between the patients, administering biofoam and antiseptic while the seriously wounded soldiers were prepped for surgery in the rooms off to the side where the surgeons and doctors worked their magic. Dried blood stained the clothes of the medical workers, and the groans of wounded men filled the room, sounding for all the world like the chorus of the damned.

Thomas shuddered. While modern medical technology allowed for patients to in some instances be literally brought back from the dead, the process was never pleasant.

"Who's in charge here?" Vasquez bellowed, and several medical officers shot annoyed looks in their direction.

"I am," came a voice, and the Rangers looked over to see a tall, balding man in a white medical coat now daubed with red approaching them. He had the insignia of a light colonel on his shoulders.

No surprise; doctors were usually given high ranks so that they could overrule the protestations of unruly subjects.

"Lieutenant Colonel Bernard Gotthrey, at your service," the man said, his voice strained. "You have a new patient?"

"Yeah," the medic spoke up, "took a sniper beam to the gut about ten minutes ago-"

Gotthrey elbowed past the team, taking in the state of the man before him and muttering to himself. Thomas caught only a few snippets of the monologue, but what he did was dire: "…internal trauma…cauterized…flash-vaporization again…damn lasers…"

"How's it look, Doc?" Vasquez began, but Gotthrey straightened, cutting him off again.

"No time," the light colonel said. "We've got to get this man to the ICU. Orderly! New patient to the burn trauma center!"

"Yes, sir!" came the cry of a young man, a 2nd Lieutenant, who dashed over with a gurney, delicately lifting Eastman's groaning form off the stretcher and onto the wheeled table and dashing away.

Thomas turned around to thank Lieutenant Colonel Gotthrey, but the doctor had already vanished among the throng of activity.

As they left, Thomas saw Vasquez manage to grab another medic on the arm and ask, "What's going on here? Why are these men in so much pain?"

Thomas barely caught the man's response; "We ran out of painkillers about half an hour ago."

Thomas swallowed and said another prayer that he didn't have to make a trip to the CCP himself.

The squad climbed back up to the main floor and were steeling themselves for another charge back across the street to rejoin their platoon when a trooper came rushing up to them.

"Ah, Rangers!" he said. "You're just what we need!"

Thomas frowned; the trooper was listed on his HUD as part of the 244th Weapons Battalion of the 167th Brigade Combat Team, 31st ID. "Sorry, private," he said, "we've got to get back to our platoon."

"Hold on," the man said. "Can you help us, just for a moment? We're trying to set up a mortar on the roof of the warehouse, but an Imperial dropship just landed a squad of stormtroopers up there and we need someone to clear 'em out."

"Listen, kid," Vasquez said, holding up a hand. "There's plenty of guys here to help you with that; we've got to get back to our CO."

"But you're Rangers," the private persisted. "Special Forces! You're the best guys we've got here." When Vasquez still didn't seem convinced, he persisted, "if we get this vantage point on the warehouse roof, we can lay down saturation fire on any Imps trying to get up the street. We could turn the tide!"

"But first you need someone to clean out the rats," Vasquez finished and sighed, trying his level best not to facepalm in front of the private.

Two more men approached, carrying the components for an 81mm M99 Man-Portable Artillery Unit, another private and a staff sergeant.

"If you're gonna help us, you better make your decision fast," the staff sergeant grunted as he shifted the weight of the mortar barrel on his back. "Command's screaming in my ear to get set up ASAP."

Vasquez groaned. "Ah, what the hell, we'll do it," he said. "I doubt Barnett'll be able to contact us through the alphabet soup on the COMs anyways."

"Thank you, sir," the private began, but Vasquez cut him off. "Don't thank us yet," he said ominously. "Come on, squad. Let's go."

Thomas took a deep breath and slid a fresh magazine into his M55 as he followed Vasquez at a trot up the stairs to the roof of the warehouse. Hopefully they made it up before the Imperials came down.

"All right, let's do this," Feltrinelli said next to him, and Thomas grinned. "Plastic boys don't stand a chance."

The squad of Rangers stormed to the top of the stairs, where a single iron door stood between them and the roof of the warehouse. Shouting and scuffling could be heard on the other side of the door as the Imperials prepared to breach it.

The Rangers would have to beat them to it.

"Breaching!" Vasquez yelled, raising his foot and delivering a thunderous kick to the door.

Aided by the strength-amplifying circuits in their armor and the minor physical augmentations given to all Special Ops personnel, the average Army Rangers was more than capable of busting down an iron door with a well-placed kick. For Sergeant Antonio Vasquez, six feet four inches tall and weighing two hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle, it was child's play.

The door crashed to the ground, revealing a squad of white-armored Imperials standing behind. Their leader looked up, and had it not been for the full-faced helmets they wore, Thomas would have sworn that his eyes would be bugged out of his head as he scrambled for his blaster.

Vasquez was faster, delivering a single 7.62mm round to the stormtrooper's forehead and sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap.

And then the shooting started.

The Rangers fanned out immediately into the lashing rain, seeking cover behind the large ventilation blocks and maintenance sheds as their shields glowed, absorbing the deadly lasers the Imperials sent their way. Thomas sprinted to cover, utilizing his HUD's targeting reticle to acquire and take down a stormtrooper even as he ran. He skidded to a stop behind a shed, allowing his shields a brief moment to recharge before leaning back around the corner to open fire on the Imperials, sending accurate three-round bursts into the chests of the stormtroopers.

The firefight was over in a single, hectic minute, the resounding bang of an M9 frag grenade sounding an end to the conflict. Thomas sighed and reloaded as the mortar team rushed up, the staff sergeant offering his profuse thanks as they deployed the M99 MPAU against the roof.

The Rangers got low to avoid skylining themselves against the edge of the building roof and providing easy targets for enemy snipers. The battle on the street still raged with even more ferocity, if that was even possible.

Thomas wondered if, when all of this was over, if anyone would remember the countless men that had died on both sides, all to secure one little street that hardly anyone remembered the name of, as the street signs had been knocked down long ago. This was why all soldiers hated urban combat. The enemy could be lurking anywhere, atop a soaring skyscraper or burrowed invisibly into a pile of rubble. Sometimes soldiers even had to watch their feet for mines or devious enemies using the sewers to flank them. It required you to be constantly alert, and so drained your endurance at a breakneck pace. Panic set in quickly for inexperienced soldiers. They started to see enemies at every corner, ghosts under every rock pile and phantoms on every skyscraper. Veterans saw many a brash young recruit fresh out of basic transformed into a shivering nervous wreck by the end of a week. Fear-induced paranoia reduced even hardened veterans into shambles with that landmark thousand-meter stare indicative of shock. And if a soldier was lucky enough to survive the conflict, the up-close and personal manner of urban fighting left many survivors haunted by nightmares for the rest of their lives.

The mortar team had set up by now, loading the first round into the M99. Thomas couldn't help but listen in as the artillerists went to work.

"Target!" the staff sergeant said. "Imperial light tank. Distance, two hundred thirty-one yards, lateral displacement minus twenty-six. Declination thirty degrees! Fire!"

"Firing!" the gunner announced, and there was a low _thump_ and a burst of smoke from the barrel of the MPAU, followed by the familiar wail of a mortar shell in flight as the 81mm projectile ascended rapidly through the air, climbing to the apex of its arc before it stalled and came plunging back down to earth with a banshee scream.

Thomas couldn't help but raise his head to watch as the 81mm mortar shell slammed into the pavement just a dozen meters to the right of the Imperial light tank, which skittered to the side in alarm as the explosion tore a crater in the pavement.

"Correction!" the staff sergeant called without missing a beat as he used a laser rangefinder to acquire the tank again. "Lateral displacement minus thirty-two from right! Declination plus thirty-two degrees from standard!" The private in charge of aiming spun the traverse and elevation wheels to keep up with his superior's commands. "Fire!"

"Firing!" the gunner announced again, and the scene from before repeated itself. This time, however, with one principal difference.

The 81mm shell rose and fell once again, like a hammer falling down upon its unfortunate prey. This time, the Imperial tank wasn't as lucky, and the mortar shell impacted just to its right, the explosion tipping the tank up and tearing a massive rent in the hull. Smoke poured out of the tank as it crashed to the ground, its repulsorlifts disabled, and an M41 rocket team down the street finished the job, putting a 102mm rocket into the motionless tank.

The Imperial tank exploded, coming apart in a hail of metal, and the Rangers cheered. AS helpless as they were in close combat, these artillerists knew their stuff.

The staff sergeant ignored the celebration and continued without pause. "Target, Imperial infantry. Distance, one hundred eighty six yards. Lateral displacement plus eighteen degrees from previous! Declination minus ten degrees from previous! Fire!"

"Firing!"

This time, the shell came down upon a hapless group of Imperial soldiers advancing along the edge of the street. It detonated square in the middle of the formation, the Imperial platoon coming apart in a flash of flame and flurry of severed limbs.

The process repeated itself, the mortar crew systematically destroying any Imperial target that presented itself. The enemy was bewildered by the sudden hail of deadly explosives raining from the sky, and had no idea how to respond. The surviving UNSC forces along the street rallied at the sudden shift in momentum and began to push forward, expelling the Imperials from the houses they had occupied as the enemy assault began to lose steam. The M808C that had nearly deafened Thomas and his squad earlier rolled down the street, sending deadly canister shells filled with hundreds of metal pellets that the UNSC soldiers referred to as "God's shotgun" into any building deemed too dangerous to enter.

Thomas grinned as the Imperial forces began to retreat, cutting their losses and falling back. Maybe they could actually win this, now.

The staff sergeant looked over at Vasquez. "Command's telling me to give you all some hearty congratulations," he said, "they're saying you may have just helped win this battle."

"A little premature," Vasquez grunted, hiding the fact that he was intrigued.

"They sound serious," the staff sergeant said. "They're saying that this street was vital to our operational defense of the city, and there may be some medals in order."

Thomas raised an eyebrow at that, glad for his opaque gold visor that hid his expression from the other artillerists who were staring at the Rangers with semi-awed expressions. Medals?

Thomas liked to say he wasn't vain, but he did have a Purple Heart already, a result of a shrapnel wound to his side suffered during a skirmish with a group of xenos several years back, and he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wouldn't mind an addition to that collection.

"Well, we'll see about that," Vasquez said, turning his gaze to the smoking, ruined skyline of the cityscape stretched out around them. "Command's always had a habit of-HOLY SHIT!"

"Sir!" Thomas said, rushing forward to where Vasquez stood, gripping the railing of the warehouse roof. "What is it-?"

Thomas's words fell dead in his mouth as he followed Vasquez's gaze to the outskirts of the Eastern District, and then his chin hit the bottom of his helmet.

Stomping through the ruined houses and buildings of the outskirts was a massive…_thing_. Thomas swore as he laid eyes upon it. It was a massive walking machine, at least twenty meters tall and shaped like a huge beast. It had a large, grey body with four mechanical legs that smashed through walls and houses like paper as they bore the gargantuan machine of war closer to its target. A small "head" protruded from the front of the body, bristling with heavy laser cannons.

Behind him, Feltrinelli uttered a heartfelt curse as Thomas swept his gaze around, using his LLVAS and his HUD's 10x zoom feature to pick out eight more of the monolithic steel titans stomping towards them. The first one he had observed crashed through a courtyard surrounding an elaborate hotel, crushing the concrete walls like paper beneath its clawed legs as it stomped towards the street they had just so painstakingly retaken.

"What the hell is it?" Lance Corporal Austin Heffer whispered, his voice part fear and part awe.

"It's a big-ass camel, tank. Thing," Specialist Upta responded, fingering his M55-B nervously. The Rangers had all seen the walkers the Imperials had deployed earlier in the battle, but those had possessed six legs, and been considerably shorter and less formidable-looking. "It might not be the best idea to be on the roof right now…"

Below, the street was a scene of chaos as the UNSC soldiers below discerned the approaching monster and began scrambling for cover. Hoping to provide its allies with a bit of a distraction, the Scorpion below fired, the projectile crossing the distance to the massive Imperial war machine.

The 125mm High-Explosive Anti-Tank shell was designed specifically to combat armored vehicles, and Thomas felt confident that the round would at least to some damage to the metal behemoth.

He was correct; the shell did some damage. It burst against the durasteel side of the Imperial walker with all the impact of a fiery snowball, leaving behind only a single tear in the metal and a large scorch mark to mark its passing.

"Impossible," Vasquez whispered.

"Apparently not," Upta said.

The Imperial walker slowly rotated its head to face the threat, peering down almost arrogantly from its high perch upon the single tank that had dared to challenge it. The commander of the Scorpion had wisely decided to retreat, and the M808C was beginning to drive backwards at incredible speed when the walker appeared to brace itself, lowered its head slightly, and spat out a series of brilliant ruby lasers the size of small buildings.

The lasers impacted on the Scorpion, swallowing it up in scarlet light. There was a massive explosion, and when the lasers passed, the tank was gone.

It seemed wrong that eighty-plus tons of steel could vanish in an instant, but vanish it did. There was nothing left to suggest the Scorpion had ever existed save for a large smoking crater and a few scattered bits of metal.

Thomas watched in fascinated horror, rooted to the spot and unable to move as his blood chilled. He remembered horror stories that veterans of the Great War told about the Covenant Scarabs, how they clambered over any obstacle and wasted any opposition thrown at them. Now it looked like the Imperials had resurrected a ghost from the past.

"Take it down!" the staff sergeant bellowed, referring to the mortar. "We've got to get off the roof!"

As he spoke, the other walkers in the distance began to fire, their scarlet beams flashing in the darkness and creating a hellishly-shifting half-light that played hideous shadows against the shattered walls of buildings.

"Let's go!" Vasquez yelled, turning around and beginning to run towards the stairs. "Now would be a _very _good time to leave!"

**A/N: No, I have NOT overpowered the AT-AT. I mean, think about it; they took freaking heavy laser cannon bolts to the side during the Battle of Hoth and didn't even acknowledge them. Admittedly, a 125mm HEAT shell is going to do a bit of damage, but unless you can land one on the neck or a leg joint or put two in the same spot, you're not going to bring down a twenty-meter tall walker with a single shot. **

**Anyways, please review!**


	15. On the Blood of our Fathers

Chapter XV

**A/N: Sorry 'bout the delay. Life's been busy, and writer's block has been sucky, quid pro quo. Also, I live in Alaska, which is pretty much the last time zone on Earth, so technically, I still did get this up by the fifteenth in MY time zone.  
>Also, an announcement: despite thorough Wookieepedia research, I have not been able to find an Imperial fighter that is strictly atmosphere-based. If you can find one, I will be greatly thankful, but for the time being, I am substituting my own creation, the Sienar Subfighter.<strong>

**Right then; time to respond to reviews!  
>To F-14 Tomcat Lover: Thanks for the specs, but the AT-ATs in this battle are an early prototype model, with significantly more armor and weapons capabilities than went into the versions in the movies. The prototype was scaled down for the final product for fiscalease of production reasons. But yes, the AT-AT design makes me ROFLCOPTER, LMAOPLANE, and LOLLERSKATE as well. Practicality beats psychological impact every day of the week.**

**To Dusel: Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it :)**

**To Andy-025: I totally did not get that until I watched some Family Guy yesterday. Congratulations, you just made me LOL endlessly.**

**Disclaimer: Yes, to any lawyer that may be reading, I now own all of Halo and Star Wars after Bill Gates and George Lucas lost a bet to my father's brother's daughter's cousin's uncle's former roommate at a casino in Vegas. And as my first act as owner of 50% of all good sci-fi, I hereby make everything in this story official canon! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!**

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System

Forward Command Center Bravo, Eastern District, Emerald Haven, Illerean Subcontinent

0138 hours, March 31st, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

"What the hell are those things?" Major General Ryan Settleton raged as he watched holographic video from a C709E electronic warfare Longsword circling high above the battlefield display the massive Imperial walkers blaing through the UNSC lines.

"Sir!" answered a young lieutenant, eager to prove himself as a capable aide. "They appear to be some sort of heavily-armored walker!"

Had the situation not been so grave, Settleton might have rolled his eyes. As it was, he merely resorted to bellowing back, "Well no shit, Sherlock!"

That shut the young man up, and Settleton turned back to the main tac screen inside the C5A2 Bastion MCV. One of the Imperial walkers opened fire again, brilliant scarlet bolts spitting from its "head" as they savaged a column of retreating Warthogs. Settleton winced as the explosions lit up the night sky. The walker then proceeded to clamber over the ruins of a skyscraper that had fallen across the road it was currently occupying as if it were nothing more than a minor speed bump even as another burst of blinding ruby lasers wrecked a quartet of Scorpion tanks.

That scene was repeated up and down the line as the nine walkers savaged the UNSC defense. Their appearance had been an immediately demoralizing blow to the troops, as they effortlessly destroyed any armor that dared oppose them while simultaneously shrugging off hits from tank and artillery shells as if they were nothing. Even as Settleton watched, a hail of 122mm howitzer shells burst around the lead walker with all the impact of a string of firecrackers. The walker didn't appear to even notice them, merely stomping forwards inexorably, spitting a burst of lasers into the base of a nearby building, which promptly collapsed across the street.

For a moment, Settleton was frozen. What the hell was he supposed to do to counter this? If howitzers couldn't bring those things down, then what could?

"Sir!" said the comms officer. "Incoming transmission from Fort Briggs, Alpha priority!"

_That'll be Pershing_, Settleton thought to himself before automatically replying, "Patch him through."

An instant later, a small box appeared in the corner of the tac screen, displaying a weary-looking man in grey fatigues with bloodshot eyes and three stars on his shoulders.

"Sir!" Settleton began, saluting his superior out of habit.

Lieutenant General Sean Pershing was, as usual, frank. He spoke before Settleton could even finish the greeting: "Now just what in the hell is going on? What's going on with those walkers?"

Settleton winced, remembering the six-legged walkers that the Imperials had used earlier to begin their attack on the city. Those walkers had been significantly less well-armed and armored, and had been taken out relatively quickly, nothing unlike these new behemoths.

"We can't stop them, sir!" he replied. "Artillery just bounces off. What about CAS?"

"All our close air-support units are tied up elsewhere," Pershing replied, dashing that hope against metaphorical jagged rocks. "What about the Cobras?"

Settleton had already begun to formulate a new question about the possibility of deploying a few Low Payload Fusion Devices-essentially nuclear grenades-but his jaw froze at the general's question.

"The Cobras," he whispered. "Of course, the Cobras!" He smacked himself on the forehead for forgetting such powerful weapons.

The SP42 Cobra was an older human vehicle, one of the few still in service that had seen action since the earliest days of the Great War. It fulfilled the role of a self-propelled artillery piece, capable of keeping up with armored columns. It boasted two 16 megajoule LRG railguns capable of turning a fully up-armored Scorpion into Swiss cheese in a matter of seconds, but it's real power, the weapon that allowed it to change the face of any battlefield, came in the form of the massive 80 MJ LRG railgun that it boasted on its top. While the Cobra had to deploy and lock down in order to fire the beastly weapon, the payoff was more than worth it. The 80 MJ LRG railgun fired a conventional explosive shell at supersonic terminal velocities, and during the Great War had been renowned as one of the few human weapons capable of destroying a Covenant Scarab mobile assault platform.

In short, it was one of the few weapons the beleaguered UNSC forces in Emerald Haven had at their disposal to counter the threat of the Imperial walkers.

"Of course, sir," Settleton said, "I'll order their deployment immediately."

"Good man," Pershing grunted. "In the meantime, some new friends from upstairs have recently shown up and think they might be able to-"

Whatever exactly Pershing's new friends thought they might be able to do was apparently to remain forever unknown as the connection suddenly cut, Pershing's image dissolving into static.

"What the hell?" Settleton asked. "What happened?"

"We lost the feed," the comms officer replied, his head spinning like a top as he tapped in commands and checked readouts all over the myriad of consoles at his station. "I'm reading some sort of electrical distortion on the channel."

"EMP?" Settleton asked fearfully. An EMP burst could either be a weapon deployed by the Imperials or the result of a large nuclear detonation in orbit from the remaining UNSC ships. Either way it would be bad news.

"No sir," the officer replied, and Settleton sighed in relief. "None of the other systems are gone."

"What about the other COM channels?" Settleton asked.

"All clear, sir," the officer said, breezing through the other COM channels, all of them chock-full with soldiers screaming for orders or begging someone to take down the walker that was wreaking havoc on their positions. "Looks like just a burp in the system."

"Alright," Settleton said. "Keep chasing that link; in the meantime, issue a Theta Order to all troops in the outskirts." A Theta Order was a code developed during the Great War for when the Covenant deployed Scarabs; it called for all UNSC forces to go to ground and engage only enemy forces in their immediate area while an appropriate response was mustered. And while in the Great War, that response had usually consisted of a thorough carpet-bombing of the Scarab until nothing was left to suggest the platform had ever existed, it could be used before heavy artillery bombardment as well.

"And send the order to Halifax's boys to deploy and engage at will."

000

ArCom, INC., Telecommunications Tower

Eastern District, Emerald Haven

0146 hours

The Arcadia Communications, INC., Telecommunications Tower was an impressive symbol of the economic might of the city of Emerald Haven. ArCom was one of the few companies that had chosen not to locate their headquarters in the financial and business centers of the Western District; the eighty-floor tower was located in the downtown sector of the Eastern District, near the Perrel River, where it towered above the nearby shops and supermarkets, a triangular tower with a forest of bristling antennae on its top. While normally the tower would be lit up at this time of night with thousands of glittering display boards, it was now dark, to prevent it from becoming a noticeable target to the Imperial fighters and attack gunships that roamed the sky, dueling with their UNSC counterparts.

The blackout was city-wide, but that wasn't of any particular comfort to Lieutenant Colonel Charles Halifax, 882nd Special Artillery Battalion as he watched a flaming F-86 Goshawk scream past the window of room he was located in, followed closely by a pair of Imperial Sienar subfighters maneuvering tightly for a kill shot.

_Good luck, old chap_, Halifax thought in the general direction of the mortally wounded fighter. _Goodness knows we all need it_.

The appearance of the new, deadly Imperial walkers had, in hindsight, not been surprising. It most certainly had been debilitating, however; while the walkers were undeniably effective at their core task of blowing things up, their design also imparted a tremendous psychological effect. Forty years after the conclusion of the Great War, the bulk of the UNSC's ground forces had never seen actual combat before, save for small skirmishes with rebels and xenos. Warfare on this scale was something they had never experienced before, and rookies would have to learn fast or die.

Halifax raised his macrobinoculars, activating the LLVAS system to cut through the darkness and rain. It was not hard to pick out the nine Imperial walkers stomping through the outskirts, spitting bursts of lasers into UNSC positions as explosions burst harmlessly against their durasteel sides.

After the Theta Order was issued, he had sent a request to command to allow his Cobras to open fire on the walkers; they were the only weapons the UNSC had available to take out the massive Imperial war machines. The Cobras had not been deployed yet in order to preserve their location from the Imperial ground assault craft that roamed the skies, but a company of engineers had set up several SAM sites around McCartney Park where the Cobras were positioned, hopefully solving that problem and allowing the SP42s to enter the fray.

"Sir!" came the voice of Lieutenant Alice Martage, his aide, off to the side from where she manned the field radio that had been set up in a sheltered alcove. "Incoming transmission from FCC Bravo!"

Halifax lowered his field glasses in surprise; Forward Command Center Bravo was Major General Ryan Settleton's field HQ; perhaps command had seen the wisdom in his request.

"Orders?" he asked.

"Affirmative," Alice replied, her voice trembling with anticipation. "It says to deploy and engage at will, sir."

Halifax allowed himself a grim smile at the prospect of his destructive power finally being turned loose. "Engage at will. I like that. Very well; send the word to the boys. And Rodriquez! Get them the updated targets!"

McCartney Park, Eastern District

0154 hours

McCartney Park was located along the eastern shore of the Perrel River, near the Westhampton Bridge. It was quite a popular place with the civilian population, offering a perfect place for families to enjoy a picnic along the shore of the river, listening to the waves lap against the grassy green sward.

Tonight, however, no children swarmed about the playground, no hum of activity came from the gravball courts. The gentle chuckle of the waves was drowned out by the roar of gunfire, and instead of the blankets and baskets of families picnicking, the grass was occupied by eight massive dark shapes.

Eight SP42 Cobra Self-Propelled Artillery Carriages rested on the grass, the deadly force of the 882nd Special Artillery Battalion occupying the previously peaceful park. And the word had just come down that they were finally being let off the leash.

In the third Cobra from the right, sealed inside the steel frame with nothing to do except wait, 2nd Lieutenant Oliver Welsh listened to the orders from Command, rerouted through Lieutenant Martage, with unbridled joy. After hours of hiding, waiting for the right moment, the UNSC's trump card could finally be revealed. He struggled to keep the giddiness out of his voice as he began the preparations to fire the SP42's 80 MJ LRG railgun, preparations drilled into his brain from years of training exercises.

"Solenoids are fully charged," Sergeant Shi Bek responded, referring to the solenoids wrapped tightly around the barrel of the Cobra's railgun that propelled the shell.

"Distance to target: two-thousand nine hundred and eighty six meters," he said, furrowing his brows as the soft blue light of the tactical computer screen suffused the interior of the Cobra, reporting back targeting information from an F99 UAV overhead.

"Distance confirmed," Bek responded as he entered the information into the targeting computer. The Cobra's barrel automatically made the proper adjustment, rising in elevation slightly.

"Target is quartering to the left at approximately twelve point six two degrees," Welsh reported, rubbing his palms on his uniform to clear off the sweat.

"Angle confirmed," Shi Bek said again, and there was a whir as the Cobra's turret rotated to the optimum angle to hit the slow-moving Imperial walker.

Welsh took a deep breath. "Fire."

"Firing," Shi Bek said, his voice tinged with excitement.

The 80 MJ LRG railgun was an amazing weapon, capable of propelling a 155mm HE shell at hypersonic velocities. However, because of the fact that it used linear accelerators to launch its payload, forsaking the traditional chemical propellant, the loud boom that resulted was not from the detonation of propellant, but of the sonic nature as the shell smashed the sound barrier.

Seven other Cobras fired at the same time, eight streaks of white blazing across the night too fast for any organic eye to follow. Welsh eagerly switched his gaze to the live video feed from the overhead UAV on his HUD.

The walker they had targeted was struck right behind where the machine's "neck" joined its "body". The tungsten-carbide penetrator at the tip of the shell punched straight through the walker's durasteel armor, and had it been strictly armor-piercing in nature, it likely would have passed all the way through the walker. As it were, however, as soon as the penetrator was depressed enough by the contact with the walker's hull, it set off the pressure sensor that triggered the ten pounds of C12 explosive packed inside the shell.

While the actual explosion could not be seen from their angle, as it was inside the walker, its effects were more than visible. The walker froze, one of its metal joints stopped halfway through its stride as its main compartment bloomed outwards from the force of containing the explosion. Smoke billowed from cracks in the hull, escaping from every seam of the walker. Slowly, agonizingly, the walker began to tip forward, falling at an increasing rate as its drivers lost control until it finally slammed into the ground in a cloud of dust.

"Yeah!" Shi Bek yelled, and Welsh gave a roar of agreement, wishing there was enough room in this Cobra to fist-pump.

The other Cobras had achieved success, too; all around the outskirts, the massive Imperial walkers were staggering this way and that as they were pummeled by the hypersonic impacts, gouts of flame erupting from the gaping holes that were smashed into their hulls. This was where the walkers' principle weakness came into play; since they were so tall, their center of gravity was also, meaning that the application of a little bit of force to the correct area could send them careening over.

And the hypersonic impact of a 155mm shell was more than "a little bit of force". The walkers fell left and right, crashing to the ground with earth-shattering force. One shell struck a walker in the lower right foreleg, ripping it off at the joint. Bereft of a quarter of its support, the machine plunged forward into the ground, its head snapping off with the sickening sound of tearing metal as it impacted the asphalt.

All in all, four walkers were destroyed, three too damaged to continue their assault, one left with minor blast damage, and the last one unscathed.

Not too bad for the Cobras' first combat deployment in over forty years. Not bad at all.

000

Fort Briggs, Western District

0225 hours

"Sir, the surviving enemy walkers are retreating!"

Despite the fact that Pershing could see that fact plain as day as displayed on the holotable in the command room of Fort Briggs, the Lieutenant General let the junior officer manning the UAV observation post have his moment of glory. "Thank you, lieutenant," he said, and the younger man fairly swelled with pride.

In truth, Pershing could not have felt more relieved. Those massive walkers had been an unholy terror to the UNSC's front lines for the past few hours, and having them gone was like having a massive weight lifted off of their backs. The command staff in the room began to celebrate as well, whooping it up and slapping each other on the backs.

"Your men performed admirably, general," said a new voice, calm and reserved. "It appears you do not need our services."

Pershing turned-shrugging off the congratulations of an excited aide-to turn to face the speaker, a young man barely twenty years old, with a dramatic shock of brown hair and a mechanical forearm, dressed in black leather. Anakin Skywalker, he had introduced himself as, a name Pershing had to fight not to laugh at; it sounded like something out of a poorly-written comic book.

He was an Outsider, had come down from their ship above to assist in the defense of the city along with his "apprentice", the orange-skinned alien girl that stuck by his side like a second shadow. Ahsoka, she said her name was. The two had been allowed in the command room reluctantly, as Pershing wasn't quite sure what to make of the Outsiders, but his promise of help with taking down the massive Imperial walkers-"AT-ATs", Anakin called them-had been too alluring to resist.

"Thank you for the offer," Pershing said cautiously, "And any help that you can render to aid us in the defense of this city will be greatly appreciated."

Pershing's words would prove to be prophetic, as a voice rang out above the chaos in the command room, silencing everyone almost immediately: "General Pershing, sir!"

Pershing turned to face the call, found it to be the young lieutenant that was observing the recon drone. "Yes?" he said impatiently.

"Sir," the man said, "I just did a high-altitude flyby of the Imperial camp; they've got eight more AT-ATs in reserve."

Pershing swore the temperature of the room dropped ten degrees in the space of a few seconds. Several heartfelt curses were uttered from senior brass; while the Cobras had proved capable of handling the massive walkers, the Imperials would likely not be dumb enough to walk right into the Cobras' guns again. Eight more of the massive metal behemoths could put a serious dent in the UNSC's defenses.

Almost immediately, the room burst into conversation as every officer and his dog began to put forth their plans on how to deal with the new threat, ranging from carpet-bombing the Imperial FOB all the way up to a tactical nuclear strike.

"Quiet!" Pershing yelled, but amidst the chaos, no one heard him. "Quiet!" he roared again, his voice shaking with fury, and this time he was heard, the room falling awkwardly silent.

Once it became apparent that reason had prevailed, Pershing brought himself under control and turned to face the lieutenant once again. "Can we call in an air strike?" he asked.

"Negative, sir," the lieutenant said, swallowing. "The Imperials have a plethora of anti-aircraft lasers set up; it was the best I could do to get the F99 close enough for a flyby."

Pershing sighed, rubbing his forehead. That ruled out any aerial insertion or `carpet bombing. At the same time, he wasn't sure if he wanted to risk diverting forces from the front lines for a full-scale assault on the Imperial base.

"Sir," said a quiet voice, and Pershing frowned, realizing it was Anakin. What could the Outsider have in mind?

"Yes?" Pershing said, turning to face the young man and his uncomfortable-looking accomplice.

"If you could get us into the Imperial base, we could sabotage the AT-ATs."

Pershing frowned, taking in the two Outsiders with a jaundiced eye. "Just the two of you?"

"We've faced tougher odds before," Ahsoka said, a little snippily.

"Quiet, Snips," Anakin chastised, and Pershing smiled at the fitting nickname. Anakin turned back to the general. "What she's trying to say is that we are more than capable of performing such a task. If you can insert and extract us, we can make sure that those AT-ATs never see the light of day again."

Pershing crossed his arms, appraising the two Outsiders before him. They were both exceedingly young, but carried about them an air of confidence that made him think they knew how to handle themselves in battle. Anakin himself carried a collection of scars, showing that he was either extremely unlucky in life or extremely lucky in battle, and of the two, Pershing was inclined to pick the latter. His voice carried an air of confidence; not arrogance, but a calm certainty in his own ability to perform at a promised level.

The problem was that Pershing had no idea how the Outsiders worked, how they fought, how they operated. Hell, he barely even knew who they were.

"And what guarantee do I have that you won't simply run off to the Imperials the instant we drop you off and tell them all about our defenses, eh?" he grunted. He risked coming off confrontational, but midway through an operation was not the time to find out that your operators' loyalties were suspect.

The alien girl, Ahsoka, bristled at the thinly-veiled assault against their trustworthiness. "Are you kidding me?" she said, stepping forward past Anakin's restraining arm and ignoring her master's attempts to placate her. "They've been trying to _kill _us. Why would we even try to talk to them?"

Pershing grunted, unimpressed. "Be that as it may, this is the Army, and we operate on facts. What proof do I have?"

"You have our word as Jedi," Anakin said, speaking up before his spitfire apprentice could formulate a new retort.

Pershing raised an eyebrow. "So I have the word of a pair of mystical space wizards who I've never met before and sound like something out of a bad twentieth century sci-fi series. I feel better already."

Ahsoka glared at him, and was opening her mouth for a blistering reply when Anakin, thankfully, silenced her with a shake of his head before turning back to Pershing. "That is all we can offer. I'm sorry if you do not believe us, but we are ignorant of your customs of trust. You will have to take us at our word."

Pershing nodded. "Mmhmm. And were I to do so, what makes you think that you can take down eight Imperial walkers by yourselves and then get out quietly?"

"You've never seen us in action before," Anakin said, "so I can't blame you for that sentiment, but I can promise that you will not be disappointed."

Pershing narrowed his eyes, looking the Outsider in the eye. Over his years in the military, he had found that you could learn a lot about a man by looking him in the eyes, could assess his quality by a simple glance.

What he saw in Anakin's eyes was a quiet confidence, and a desire to prove himself. The Outsider returned Pershing's steely gaze calmly, meeting the stare that cowed so many.

There was something to this man. And as much as Pershing hated to admit it, the Outsiders may well be their best chance at eliminating those AT-ATs before the Imperials could bring them into play.

The silence stretched on for a full minute, broken only by the background hum of generators and consoles and the chaos of war outside.

It was ended as the lieutenant manning the recon drone spoke up again. "Sir," he said, clearing his throat. "If you're going to make a decision, you'd better make it fast. The Imperial forces in the city appear to be forming a solid defensive line along the outskirts; this may be our only chance."

Pershing nodded, taking that into account. He turned his attention to the holotable, where the lieutenant's words were confirmed; the Imperial forces were abandoning their push and formulating a solid defensive line, hoping to hold what territory they'd captured thusfar and wait to launch their next assault.

The risk of employing tentative allies with never-before-seen methods was high. But so was the payoff of removing the Imperials' deadliest assets from the game entirely.

Pershing blew out a breath. During his Academy days, he had always been an aggressive commander; this would have been something he would have gone for immediately. But the years and the pressures of holding thousands of lives in his hands had since gentled him somewhat, made him more cautious on where to commit his forces.

Of course, he wasn't even committing his own forces. Should the mission go awry, they would only be losing two Outsiders, and not any UNSC assets.

"Sir? General Settleton is requesting orders."

Pershing set his jaw. He didn't have time to debate anymore. "Very well. Tell Settleton and Harth to break off all offensive actions and reform their forces into a defensive line as close as they can get to the Imperial positions."

He turned away from the holotable as the blue symbols that represented the UNSC forces began to reorganize themselves, fixing the two Outsiders with his gaze. "Alright, I'm approving this mission, but-"

"Thank you, sir!" Ahsoka gushed before Anakin could stop her, practically leaping for joy. "I guarantee you won't be disappointed."

Pershing ignored the breach in address of a superior officer and continued. "_But_ let me make several things clear; you will be on your own, deep in enemy territory. If things hit the fan-which I can't shake the feeling that they will-we will not be able to extract you. The ball is entirely in your court. Understand?"

Anakin frowned at the last bit, and Pershing cursed himself for using a metaphor that they likely had never heard before, but the Outsider seemed to figure it out, as he nodded once. "Completely, sir. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Pershing said cryptically, before turning. "Major Hatz! Colonel Li!" he barked.

"Sir!" the two officers stepped forwards, saluting crisply.

"You're in charge of final planning on this harebrained op," Pershing said. "Do what you've got to do to get these two in and out."

"Understood, sir," Colonel Li replied, stepping forward. "This way," he said to Ahsoka and Anakin, gesturing them over to a corner of the war room.

"And someone get on the horn with the swabbies up in orbit," Pershing continued. "Let's see if we can get the split-lips to lend some help."

000

CSS _Inexorable_

Centuries before the Sangheili had joined the Covenant, they had been a warrior race. It was simply the way their culture worked. Children were raised from childhood specifically, to the near-exclusion of everything else, for the sole purpose of learning to fight with speed and lethality and to uphold the Sangheili code of honor. When the Covenant was formed, the Sangheili were the core of that union's military. Throughout the wrongful war with the humans, it was the Sangheili that spearheaded the charge up until the Great Schism, earning the term "Elites" from their former adversaries, in honor of their prowess in battle. When the Covenant split and the Prophets' lies were revealed, it was the Sangheilis' fighting spirit and warrior knowledge that turned the tide against the Loyalists.

Simply put, the Sangheili culture was one that emphasized war above everything else. And while the recent truce with the humans had opened their eyes to many things, the Sangheili were a slow species to change, and many refused to budge from their old ways. On Sangheili colonies, the children were still taught how to wage war, still instructed in the way of defeating an opponent with honor.

They were warriors to their core. Every bone, every muscle, was trained for battle, to kill. The honorable knights of yore, the deadly original Spartans, the determination and consummate skill of the feudal ninjas; the Sangheili took every essence of the respected fighters throughout human history and combined that with their own killer instinct to forge a race of warriors that saw none as their equal and trusted only in their own ability.

Needless to say, running away from a fight went against every statute, every ideal of the warrior essence that was ingrained into a Sangheili from the moment of birth. It ran contrary to every grain in their body, made their blood boil in anger.

Which made the situation Shipmaster Ri'shek Markum very, very tense.

No matter the tactical advantage of withdrawing, no matter the fact that the invincible demons were now onboard the Imperial super-cruiser, the fact still remained that the human Shipmaster and impromptu Fleetmaster had ordered the surviving Allied naval forces to retreat as soon as the demons had boarded.

That by itself was not the problem; Sangheili were not so honor-blind as to ignore basic tactics, and the Allied fleet was still heavily outnumbered. There was nothing to be gained by blindly engaging the Imperial ships.

The problem came from the waiting.

Sangheili were creatures of action; every moment of a battle was one that should be used to defeat the enemy. Inaction was maddening to them, and long periods of it were prone to driving them mad with battle-lust.

Ri'shek could sense the frustration building in the bridge; could pick up on the subtle but unmistakable hints that the crew was unintentionally dropping. A tiny shift of a finger here, the nearly imperceptible irritated twitch of a mandible there; all minor things to anyone not versed in Sangheili body language. But Ri'shek could tell from the palpable tension in the air, the terse manner in which the crew addressed each other, that they were growing impatient.

Ri'shek couldn't blame them. The enemy was waiting, sitting _just out there_, and he _Inexorable, _at least, still had the strength to challenge them. Those Sangheili that were veterans of the Great and Pacification Wars were more reserved, but Ri'shek could tell that they too were on edge.

And so it was that when the human interim-Fleetmaster contacted them with a plea for aid from the human forces on the planet below, Ri'shek was more than happy to oblige. The _Inexorable _carried two thousand Sangheili of the respected N'tho warrior crèche onboard, along with a hundred Huragok and twenty Mgalekgolo pairs. While the Huragok were necessary for the operation of the vessel and to repair any damage that may be incurred in the upcoming battles, due to the assistance of Elindar, a scant three hundred Sangheili were truly necessary to keep the _Inexorable _running at full combat capabilities. Add two hundred for security in case of an Imperial boarding attempt, and that left fifteen hundred warriors that could be deployed to the surface. Along with their supporting armor, that many skilled soldiers could seriously bolster the human defenses.

This was the first battle of a war that would go down in the battle poems of all Sangheili families privileged enough to have a member fight in it. Ri'shek was not about to allow it go down as a defeat.

000

In his personal quarters two floors above the _Inexorable_'s main hangar, K'dar Sraom, Ultra of the N'tho crèche, revered warrior and a commander loved by all his warriors, prepared for battle.

It was no great burden to him, merely a routine that he had gone through dozens of times before. While the Sangheili had officially split from the Covenant, they had kept many of the trappings of their former culture, one of the main being the fact that battlefield promotions were still administered in the same system; body count.

Sangheili were promoted based upon the number of enemies they had defeated in battle. K'dar was eighty-three units of age, old enough to have seen significant action in both the Great and Pacification Wars, and had personally defeated hundreds of enemies to achieve the respected rank of Ultra, a battlefield commander of the Sangheili military. His exploits had added greatly to his family's already-lengthy battle poem, and elevated their status considerably among the culture.

And now it was time to answer the call to battle once again. While K'dar knew better by now than to regard war as some youthful venture, a mere pastime (he had seen to many Sangheili die before his eyes to completely hold on to the idealized concept of battle instilled in young Sangheili), he could not deny that he was excited by the prospect of battle once more. The nearly thirty years of peace since the end of the Pacification War had had an impact on all Sangheili, especially the old veterans who knew not what to do with themselves in peacetime. K'dar regarded suiting up for battle with a calm determination, knowing what was required of him and his warriors and brimming with the utmost confidence that they would succeed in their task.

K'dar fastened the last plate of his interlocking white body armor that marked him as an Ultra onto his right shoulder, rolling it to make sure the pauldron was secured. Then, he picked up his helmet from where it rested upon a pedestal, a flared white battle helm, flawlessly repaired from the many dents and nicks it had received over years of combat. Slowly, he fastened it (due to their quadruple-mandible mouth structure, Sangheili helmets were designed to fit _around _the wearer's skull instead of over it) to his head, feeling that same electric thrill he always did when his armor powered up, his HUD coming to life as his armor's subsystems activated.

K'dar moved on to his armament. A T-51 Directed Energy Rifle, referred to by their human allies as a plasma repeater, was slung over the magnetic weapons strip on his back. A quartet of plasma grenades were placed into a pouch at his waist, and a Type-25 Directed Energy Pistol was clipped to his thigh plate.

And finally, he retrieved his final weapon from its secure place in a small, rectangular box by his bunkside, pressing his thumb to the biometric scanner that disabled the plasma shielding on the inside.

Inside, resting in a bed of blue velvet, was a cylindrical object, ornately curved so that it would fit just so into its wielder's hand, its surfaced inlaid with intricate designs that traced glyphs and symbols known only to the Sangheili people.

The Type-1 Energy Weapon, referred to by the humans as simply the "plasma sword", was a weapon of tremendous status in Sangheili culture, so much so that only nobles or aristocrats or high-ranking warriors were allowed to be trained in their use. Those who were permitted to use them lost the right to marriage, but were allowed to mate with as many females as they would like to ensure the successful transmission of "swordsman genes". The sword was a weapon of awe and fear alike, striking terror into the hearts of enemies while simultaneously inspiring courage in nearby allies. It was viewed by many as a holy weapon, and it was considered better for a Sangheili to redeem himself by falling on his blade then to die in dishonor. It was only to be used in open war or private duels, since a drawn sword, according to Sangheili culture, demanded blood. A warrior's honor and his sword were one in the same, interconnected so seamlessly by centuries of cultural impact.

To the humans and Covenant Loyalists that had faced it in battle, however, it held an entirely different meaning; one of death. When the weapon was activated, its two four foot-prongs of magnetically-contained superheated plasma sprang to life, producing a weapon terrifying in its abilities. Because it used ioinized gas instead of traditional solid, shaped matter, it didn't need to "grip" anything as it cut; rather, it merely boiled anything that it came near, allowing it to cut through nearly anything, including titanium battleplate, given enough time. Against organic material, its effects were even more frightening. As the blade passed through the tissue, organs would be burned and cauterized, causing flash-vaporization of the water in the body that often resulted in mini-explosions inside the victim, causing even further damage.

As the first son of a revered warrior of the Sangheili, K'dar had been trained in the weapon's use since birth, and proved his skill with the weapon through multiple duels. There were few among the Separatists that could best him.

Slowly, reverently, he wrapped his fingers around the weapon, reveling in the feel of the cool metal against his skin, absentmindedly tracing one of the glyphs inscribed on the hilt, the Sangheili symbol for "strength".

He would need it for the battle ahead.

Straightening, K'dar clipped the weapon to his thigh. His preparations were complete; it was now time to muster the troops.

K'dar left his quarters, giving not even a thought to the fact that he may be leaving them for the last time. He stepped out into the hall, heading towards the lift that would take him to the hangar, and immediately two massive thumps sounded as his bodyguards fell into step behind him.

Nodo Lram Okon and Tetrer Lram Makol were Mgalekgolo, the twelve-foot tall massively-armored colonies of Lekgolo worms that the humans referred to simply as "Hunters". As bond brothers, they fought, lived, and if necessary, died together, but their principle task was dedicated to the protection of K'dar. And with their massive shields and assault cannons built into their armor, it was a task they were more than capable of performing.

Normally, K'dar would insist that he needed no protection, but it was tradition for Sangheili commanders to accept Mgalkegolo bodyguards. The two species had great respect for each other, ever since the Taming of the Hunters centuries ago, and the Lram brothers had been K'dar's trusted companions for many units.

They didn't speak much; at least, not in the way that Sangheili could understand. The Lekgolo were strange creatures, a hive-mind of worms that could be smashing enemies one moment and then stopping to recite battle poetry the next. In any matter, K'dar was glad that most of the Mgalekgolo had joined the Separatist movement. The behemoths were intimidating enough among allies, he thought as the Sangheili in the _Inexorable_'s corridors parted around them like water around a rock, casting awed glances at the two Mgalekgolo. In war, their mere presence was often enough to so demoralize an enemy force that they gave up the fight.

Luckily, the gravity lift down to the hangar had been designed with their species in mind, so while it was still a tight squeeze to fit a Sangheili and two Mgalekgolo inside, they were not uncomfortable. K'dar stepped into the lift, feeling the familiar impression of weightlessness sink in as he descended.

The gravity lift dropped them into a small annex before the hangar, and it was only a short walk before they entered the massive room.

Massive was perhaps an understatement, K'dar thought as his hoofs hit the polished floor of the hangar, allowing his eyes to roam all over the cavernous hangar. An entire human frigate could dock inside, if necessary. Gargantuan was a better word.

Right now, most of the space was occupied by fifteen hundred Sangheili warriors and nineteen Mgalekgolo pairs preparing to land on the planet below. Sangheili swarmed everywhere, prepping vehicles for transport and packing their gear. Major Domos resplendent in scarlet armor, Minors outfitted in the traditional blue, while Huragok floated about, performing last-minute checks on the rows of Phantom dropships that would ferry the warriors down to the surface. Occasionally a Mgalekgolo pair could be spotted, towering above the Sangheili as they prepared for battle in whatever private way they did.

And in the background, looming above everything else, it's purple-blue armor practically glowing in the soft ambient lighting the Covenant preferred on their vessels, was the _Inexorable_'s single Type-47 Ultra-Heavy Assault Platform.

K'dar's personal ride down to the fray below.

Commonly known as "Scarabs", the T-47 UHAPs were the Covenant's most feared weapons during the Great War. The multi-leveled, quadruped behemoths were practically indestructible by anything short of a thorough carpet-bombing and conversely, their massive fore-facing assault cannon and top-mounted plasma cannon were capable of destroying practically anything that dared to stand before them. Standing in at nearly twenty meters high, their spider-like design was both psychological terror and a tactical advantage, allowing them to clamber over obstacles ordinary vehicles would find impassable. Furthermore, their incredibly-dense layers of composite armor could soak up murderous amounts of firepower before finally succumbing, and their double-jointed legs could bend in either direction, allowing them to successfully absorb massive impacts. If necessary, Scarabs could even be deployed from low orbit, free-falling to the ground below.

Wordlessly, K'dar struck out towards the Scarab, striding quickly through the noise and confusion around him. Everywhere Sangheili bustled, readying themselves for the upcoming battle. They saluted K'dar as he came near, and he nodded in response, taking in their excited expressions. For many of them, this would be their first battle, their first chance to make an impact on their family's battle poem.

As he moved through the crowd, passing a line of Wraiths and Ghosts being prepped for loading onto Phantoms, he heard snippets of conversation.

"…I can't believe we're finally getting to fight…"

"…now remember, the Imperials are humans, but not true ones…"

"…I promised my mate that I'd bring back a set of enemy armor…"

The conversations were many and varied. Major Domos with combat experience impressed the lessons they had learned the hard way onto the eager rookies, while the Minor Domos likewise badgered their seniors unceasingly with questions about what combat was really like.

Finally, K'dar reached the Scarab, which had its rear end lowered to the ground to allow access. He strode quickly up the ramp, taking in the crew that scrambled this way and that, prepping the massive battle walker for its first trial by fire.

One of them came up to him, a younger Sangheili by the family of L'pek. "Sir, you are here! Do you wish to descend to the piloting cabin?"

K'dar clicked his two right mandibles, the Sangheili equivalent of a human thoughtful frown. "No," he said, "I do believe I shall head to the upper decks."

"Are you going to make a speech, commander?"

K'dar blinked, startled at the young Minor Domo's intuition. "I do believe so," he said. While he had no doubt that his troops were sufficiently motivated, he had some things he wished to say. Hecontinued on past L'pek, up to the top deck of the Scarab where he could observe the entire hangar, his two bodyguards dutifully thumping up the ramp behind him. The Mgalekgolo would be cramped on the walker, but they would make do.

The Ultra swallowed as he came to the edge of the railing on the walker's upper deck. The entirety of the hangar was spread out before him, the Sangheili below all looking up in interest.

K'dar coughed once. The sound, amplified by his armor's external speakers, banished all other noise in the room as everyone looked up, waiting with baited breath for the speech they were sure would come.

K'dar was not a politician, not an orator. He had never practiced speaking before, had never put much stock into the ability of words to change things. But today, he felt something different. Today, he felt, his words might make a difference, might encourage the doubtful and strengthen the convictions of the decided.

With a deep breath, he began. "Friends. Brothers. Warriors of the N'tho crèche, lend me your ears."

Silence.

K'dar swallowed, his next words tentative. "Today, we embark upon a great crusade." There were a few isolated cheers at that remark, and K'dar waited for them to die down before continuing. "It has been many units since our people were last at war. We have enjoyed a peace unlike any before in our history, and our alliance with the humans is stronger than ever."

This time, there was no interruption, everyone waiting expectantly for his next words. K'dar felt himself becoming braver, the words rolling out of his throat with a speed and grace he never would have expected from himself. "But now, a new enemy has arrived. An enemy that attacked us without reason, without provocation. They have come to the world of our allies and lay siege to it, and they have killed our brethren."

If the silence had been complete before, it was now absolutely chilling. In Sangheili culture, spilled blood demanded reprisal. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, were commonplace and accepted.

K'dar went on, his mandibles contorting into a vicious snarl. "These 'Imperials'," he said, stressing the word out with as much distaste and loathing as he could summon, "are arrogant. They are prideful, confident, sure of themselves. They believe that they can walk right over us, and that we will not be able to stop them."

This time, there were growls of anger, a ripple of anger spreading through the mustered warriors.

"They are wrong," K'dar said, his voice deathly quiet. "The Sangheili are warriors, the best the galaxy has seen. And they shall discover that as soon as we lay hoof upon the battlefield." The cheers began again, growing in volume as K'dar continued. "We shall reinforce our human allies, and then we shall drive the Imperials from the field of battle. We shall burn them with our power, smite them with our power. We shall c_rush _them like the ants they are, until their dishonor is complete and we stand the victors."

There was a roar of approval from the assembled Sangheili, and K'dar waited again before continuing. "Warriors, for many of you this is your first battle. For others it is but one in a long line of honorable engagements. But both of you, know this! This is the first battle in a war that will go down in history, and I am not about to let it become a loss. Your part in it will be one that shall be engraved into your family battle poems for eons! Your children shall tell of it to theirs, and their children to their own. Immortality…" he paused dramatically and made a sweeping gesture to the magnetic field that contained the hangar, and the planet visible, drifting in the void outside.

"…awaits you mere moments away," he said, a bit surprised at his own showmanship.

The warriors of the N'tho crèche apparently approved, however, as they burst out into a tremendous yell, recognizing K'dar's words as true. K'dar waited for the tidal wave of sound to die down. His flaming words had begun steel in their hearts; now he had to temper it with the water of reality so that it did not snap during its first trial.

"However," he said, and the roars died away. "However, know this; it will not be an easy battle. The Imperials are not weak. They have weapons of great power and machines of war that shall test our skills to their limits. Do not make the mistake that many have done throughout history. Respect your opponent, be it human, Sangheili…Jiralhanae...and you shall find them easier to kill."

There were murmurs from the crowd, some in agreement, some merely cursing the loathsome name of the Jiralhanae, the instigators of the Great Schism and the Sangheili people's rivals for centuries.

K'dar continued quickly. "Warriors!" he called, cutting through the low murmurs and bringing everyone to attention. "Let you know this. I have faith in you. I trust you with my life. There is no finer group of warriors with which I would choose to fight!"

Roars of agreement from the crowd, and K'dar felt adrenaline rush through his veins, his twin hearts pumping the substance through him. He clambered upwards, scrambling to the very top of the Scarab, where he stood overlooking the mass of Sangheili and Mgalekgolo below.

Opening his mouth, he roared at the top of his voice, "Tell, me, warriors, do you desire _honor?_"

"Yes!" came the thunderous reply.

"Do you desire…_glory?_" K'dar continued, egging them on.

"YES!" the roar came, even louder this time.

"Do you desire..._BATTLE?" _K'dar roared, his voice echoing off the walls as he whipped the warriors into a frenzy.

This time, there were no discernible words, simply a tidal wave of sound that swept through the hangar as fifteen hundred Sangheili warriors bellowed their response, beating the handles of their rifles against the floor and creating a drumroll of sound that reverberated through the hangar, vibrating the very air.

K'dar held up a fist, and slowly, the noise died away. Everyone in the hangar gazed at him with wide eyes, silhouetted as he was in his white armor, standing on the top of the Scarab. They were his, his realized, a fiery joy shooting through his veins. They were his to mold and form at will. He had them in the palm of his hand, and the right phrase would send them over the edge, temper their morale into a bar of unbreakable steel. The air hung heavy, the entire room poised on the brink, agonizingly waiting for the conclusion to K'dar's monologue.

K'dar sucked in the deepest breath he had ever taken, his lungs swelling and expanding to their limit before he forced the air out at the top of his voice.

"Then go forth, warriors of the N'tho crèche!" he bellowed, "for it awaits you here, at the beginning of war!"

As soon as he finished, K'dar leaped down to the top deck once again and turned his hearing actuators down to their lowest levels.

He was just in time.

The primeval wave of sound that swept across the hangar was bone-rattling in its force. Even some of the Mgalekgolo joined in, their bass roars rumbling the floor.

They were ready.

K'dar gave them the warrior's salute-clasping a fist over his chest before punching his arm outwards-and the roar, if possible, seemed to become even louder. Then he turned, and strode quickly down to the middle level, ducking into the piloting cabin before anyone could confront him. He felt strangely vulnerable after completing the speech, an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling to him. As a warrior, he had rarely experienced that feeling amidst the heat of battle; why would a mere speech upset him so.

K'dar leaned against the blue wall, steadying his limbs as he fought to calm his fluttering hearts. The Lram brothers followed him into the cabin, though they had to flatten their spines onto their backs to do so. If they had been riled by his performance, they gave no sign of it, merely settling into a protective formation on either side of him.

L'pek entered the cabin, heading towards the mass of chairs, pilots, and holograms that was the Scarab's control enter. As he passed K'dar, however, he paused, turning to face him with a thoughtful look.

"That was quite a speech, commander," he said.

K'dar grunted, not really in the mood to talk. "I only wish for the battle ahead," he growled. "Then it shall be my blade that does the talking."

**A/N: Now comes the part where I make a pitiful and slightly narcissistic plea for reviews, and you reciprocate by telling me how pitiful and narcissistic I am. You know how this works ;)**


	16. Making Friends Wherever We Go

Chapter XVI

**A/N: Apologies for the delay. I know it sounds like a tired excuse, but I plead writer's block once again. Plus, many late-night Halo: Reach sessions attempting to reach Colonel have cut into my writing time. **

**I have a sad announcement; school is starting soon. Which means sports, Honors classes, and a general lack of personal time. I'll try my level best to keep update speeds up, but don't expect any miracles.**

**To Wolf2: At this point, I highly doubt that there will be any Ahsoka pairing. It seems that every Halo/SW crossover with her in it has her getting paired up with SOMEONE, and I'm rather sick of it. Just because there's a female character running around that happens to be single doesn't mean she immediately needs to be paired up with someone.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Still nope. 'll probably still be nope next time.  
>Anyways: SPARTAN TIME!<strong>

Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

_Subjugator_-class cruiser _Malice_

0243 hours, March 31st, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

Petty Officer Second Class Matthias-D105 took his first step into the corridors of the enemy cruiser, M55 up and scanning the hallway for targets as his metal-encased foot made contact with the floor.

It was empty in both directions save for a single, small robot on wheels that squawked in alarm at the intruders and began to speed off. Matthias brought his M55 up with lightning speed and fired a burst, the 7.62mm rounds tearing the little robot apart in a shower of sparks and a tiny burst of black smoke.

He made on more scan in both directions, ascertaining that the corridor was void of any life. "Clear," he announced, taking a step forward and sliding his M55's fire-select back to semi-auto.

The rest of November Team streamed into the hallway, fanning out to confirm Matthias's assessment. Katrina nodded once, verifying her scout's words, and then turned to a nearby wall terminal. Amir and Takedama both took up kneeling positions on either side of the group, facing down both ends of the hallway in case a threat should emerge while their squad leader was attending to other matters.

Matters pertaining to the ultimate capture of this ship.

"Sarge?" Katrina said, tapping the wall terminal and the unknown statistics it was displaying. What was on the terminal may well have been valuable intelligence, but without a proper understanding of how the ship worked, it may as well have been written in Ancient Greek.

Well, all the Spartans could read Ancient Greek, but the analogy still held true.

A disembodied voice responded from the terminal, bearing Sarge's familiar gruff tone. "Now hold on just a moment, I'm a coming." There were a few sputters of light from a holoprojector near the terminal before it came to life, spitting up a wavering image of their AI attaché. Sarge's avatar was that of a WWII-era American paratrooper, complete with the face paint, webbed helmet, and M1A1 Thompson submachine gun.

"Sorry 'bout the delay," Sarge apologized. "The EMP burst slowed down the ship's network."

"Is that good or bad?" Katrina queried.

"Yes," Sarge responded, and Matthias rolled his eyes.

"Can you get us the ship schematics?" Katrina asked. "This thing is huge; we could be wandering around for hours if we don't know where we're going."

"Already on it," Sarge responded. "Looks like this monster has an internal railjet system."

"An internal what?"

"Railjet system. Our closest parallel would be a MagLev train."

Katrina nodded. It was common for large ships such as Separatist supercarriers and the newer UNSC _Quasar_-class dreadnoughts to house an internal MagLev or horizontal gravity lift system to quickly transport troops, personnel, and supplies from one part of the ship to the other. It made sense that the Imperials would have a similar system.

However, that railjet system would likely prove to be quite a thorn in their sides, as it would grant the Imperials the edge in maneuverability and speed. Since the six Spartan-IVs were vastly outnumbered, those two attributes would likely be their principle advantages in this boarding action. They would have to be denied to the Imperials.

"Can you shut it down?" she asked.

"I'm insulted," Sarge sniffed, shouldering his Thompson.

Katrina sighed and revised her question, internally cursing the habits that Smart AIs developed. "_Will _you shut it down?"

"Already done," Sarge said smugly. "You're welcome."

It took all of Katrina's discipline not to smash the palm of her hand into her forehead.

Sarge proved his worth once again, however, as a flashing message appeared on her HUD, informing her that a new data package had been received. She opened it, revealing a wire-frame plan view of the Imperial supercruiser.

"Confirm reception of schematics," Katrina said.

Five green acknowledgement lights winked on her HUD, showing that the rest of November Team had also received the ship's layout, which would allow for much easier movement throughout the labyrinth of corridors and lifts.

"Alright," Katrina said, turning back to Sarge. "Shut down the internal sensors and security cameras," she ordered. "It'll be much easier for us to take the ship if they don't know where we are."

"Working," Sarge said, and then a moment later, "Done." He sighed. "A pity. I had hoped these Imperials would have better security programs. So far, this has been child's play."

"As long as it stays that way, I'm happy," Katrina muttered. Her patience with the AI was beginning to wear thin.

She chinned a control at the three o'clock position on her helmet, and a holoprojector on the side of her helmet came to life, spitting up a wire-frame image of the ship as she devised a plan for seizing control of the massive cruiser.

"We'll have to move fast on this one," she said to the rest of the Spartans. "Teams of two. Team One will consist of Novembers One and Two," she informed, referring to herself and Takedama. Now that they were on-mission, when their communications could be monitored, they would have to refer to each other by their numerical designations only. "Our destination will be the fire-control room for the portside ion cannon where we will eliminate the gunnery crew and disable the cannon."

Sarge helpfully added a flashing red dot in the portside gunnery room, marking the location on the team's schematics.

"Three and Four will do the same for the starboard cannon," Katrina continued, referring to Amir and Isaac. Again, another flashing nav point appeared, marking Team Two's objective. "Remember, our objective here is to disable the cannons, not destroy them. Sarge can shut them down, but I want to make sure they're out of commission before we attempt to take this boat back to friendly space. We're also here to gather intelligence, not just blow things up." Katrina finished her orders with a pointed glance at Isaac. The assault specialist shifted in his armor, his expression inscrutable behind his polarized visor.

Katrina turned to face Matthias and Laura. "Five and Six, you're Team Three."

"Really?" Laura said, swinging her assault rifle up to her shoulder. "I thought we were going to be Team Nine."

"Lock it down, Six," came Katrina's immediate response. As one of the few Spartans to have made it through the brutal training with a sense of humor intact, Laura's wit was both a blessing and a curse to November Team. Fortunately, the brunette Spartan knew when to keep it under check.

"Your objective will be the central railjet terminal amidships," Katrina said, and a red objective marker appeared over the terminal. "Sarge can shut down the railjet system, but we need you to hold the position until we return. Sarge will then reactive the system, which we will take to the bridge."

"Understood, ma'am," Matthias replied immediately, squelching his annoyance at being put on defensive duty. The railjet system would be a crucial point in the capture of this ship; whoever controlled it could move around with much more ease and freedom. That advantage had to be firmly in the Spartans' hands if they were to complete their mission.

"Everyone clear?" Katrina asked.

Five green acknowledgement lights winked on her HUD.

"Good," she said. "Sarge…you do what you do best. Slow them down as best as you can; just don't vent the atmosphere. We want as much of this ship intact as possible when we bring it back to HIGHCOM. Understand?"

Sarge gave a snappy salute, racking the slide of his holographic Thompson as he prepared to go do electronic battle. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Katrina glanced around at the team. "All right. Move out."

The Spartans broke up into their assigned teams with the speed and precision that could only be gained through unbroken training since childhood. As the team's recon specialist, Matthias was accustomed to taking point, so he assumed the lead as Laura followed behind. His HUD had plotted a map using the ship's schematics that would take them to the central railjet terminal by following a holographic line superimposed on the floor, much like following the proverbial breadcrumbs.

000

"Lieutenant Ostress. Would you mind telling me why the bridge lights aren't working?"

Kehren's tone was smooth, almost placid, displaying no hint of the annoyance and anger that bubbled just underneath the surface. A fleet officer had to be calm and collected in the face of battle, and Kehren thought he was doing a relatively good job of it.

Of course, it did help that since the bridge was lit by the muted red of the emergency backup power his expression was much harder to discern.

Looking up from his set of consoles, Lieutenant Darmon Ostress, Senior Operations Chief, had a face as pale as stormtrooper armor. Half of the screens on his consoles were washed out in static or merely blank black screens. "I…I don't know," Ostress stammered, his voice holding a tinge of panic. "They just…shut down."

"Well, why don't you restart them?" asked Barralon, stepping forward, and Kehren squeezed his eyes shut tight in an attempt to retain enough control of himself to not punch the idiot across the face.

"We're trying," Ostress responded, turning back to his row of consoles where his subordinates were hammering away at keyboards with the speed of a crazed Rodian as they attempted to diagnose the problem. "But this is unlike anything we've ever dealt with so far. We don't know how to combat it."

"What do you mean?" Ozzel put in, looking around the bridge slightly nervously. "What's different about this from your training?"

"All of our training was focused on defeating viruses and the like," Ostress responded, pausing long enough in his frantic typing to look back over his shoulder at the trio of officers. "This...whatever it was didn't attack the program; it just _erased_ the software."

Kehren frowned. "Bridge lights have software?"

"In a limited form, yes," Ostress replied impatiently. "Nothing compared to the other major subsystems, but we need to be able to control which lights come on and when without constant oversight. Until we get a new copy of the program, nothing we do, no cleaning program we run, will change anything."

"Why didn't our firewalls stop it?" Kehren asked, walking over to the operations station and leaning over Ostress's shoulder as the man typed in lines of code in an attempt to isolate the program that was causing all this chaos.

"It hacked our security programs," Ostress said as he scrolled down an error report. "Like they weren't even an obstacle for it. Some kind of spike wedge; bounced all handshake protocols and hard shutdown contingencies like they were nothing."

Kehren blinked, momentarily nonplussed at the tech speak, before he got the gist of it. Whatever they were dealing with here, it was far beyond what they were accustomed to.

"What kind of cyber attack goes after a ship's lights?" Barralon wondered out loud, and Kehren couldn't contain himself any longer. "An attack that wants to provide the boarding party with concealment," he snapped, and surprisingly, Barralon didn't respond. "Or one that's merely testing its capabilities before it…" he trailed off midsentence as he realized the danger that revelation showcased.

"What?" Ozzel asked. "Before it what?"

"…before it goes after something more serious."

That ominous silence hung in the air for a moment as everyone on the bridge momentarily paused, realizing how helpless they were to another electronic attack that would cripple something more vital to the _Malice_'s operations.

Say, the oxygen supply to the bridge.

Kehren's mind raced as he wracked it for a solution, anything that would stop this hostile program from killing them all with a simple command, whether it be an overload code to the reactor or a vent command to the atmosphere locks. If their firewalls couldn't stop it, then the only defense would be…

…would be…

…a complete and total shutdown.

Kehren blinked, searching his mind for any other options. A total shutdown of the ship would kill everything except for passive systems like life support and emergency power, systems that operated constantly and required no command input from the operations center. In his limited cyber-defense training, he had been taught that a complete shutdown was the only surefire way of stopping a cyber attack, as it would eliminate any means by which the invading program could travel in the ship's networks and send or interrupt commands to various systems.

However, it was also to be the _very last _option, to be used in only extremely desperate scenarios, as it essentially crippled the vessel, forcing it to remain dormant until the attackers were expunged.

"We just lost all feeds from the security cameras," said one of the junior operations officers. Kehren glanced over and saw the man's screens washed out with static. "Internal sensors are down, also."

That did it. The decision was crystallized in Kehren's mind; the enemy program was learning and moving. If they didn't stop it now, they never would.

"Shut down main power," he ordered.

"What?" came the response from Ozzel and Barralon.

Ostress, fortunately, realized the same threat that Kehren did, and took the orders unquestioningly, putting his subordinates to work as they scrambled to bring the _Malice_ down to minimal operating capacity.

"Are you insane?" Ozzel hissed, stepping forward between Kehren and Ostress. "This is madness! You're crippling us to any outside attack! Surely there must be some other way to defend this without resorting to such extreme measures-"

"_Extreme measures_ are all we have left now, Admiral," Kehren growled, hating every moment of the last word. "And since they've sent a boarding party, I would say that the enemy's interest in destroying this ship is negligible, to say the least."

Ozzel paused in his tirade as he considered that point, and Kehren pressed his advantage. "The rest of our fleet is already moving in to cover us; at this point, we stand a much better chance of being killed by this _thing _rampaging through our subsystems if we don't stop it now. And since we've already seen that our firewalls were useless against it, a hard shutdown remains our only feasible option."

As soon as Kehren finished the sentence, Ostress swiveled in his chair to face them. "Sir, in order to complete the shutdown, we need the authorization of the ship's captain."

All eyes turned to Ardus Barralon, who promptly crossed his pudgy arms across his chest and assumed a look of determination. "No. Absolutely not. I will not be party to this madness. We have not explored all options, and I will not willingly cripple my vessel on a mere hunch-"

Barralon's attempted justification was cut off by a strangled cry of frustration and anger as Kehren's patience finally snapped. The young officer's arm shot down to his side, plucking his DH-17 blaster pistol from its holster and bringing it up to eye level in an instant, aiming directly at the stubborn captain.

The bridge fell dead silent for a split-second, which was immediately broken by a series of metallic snaps and clicks as the bridge's stormtrooper guard leveled their weapons at Kehren.

Kehren swallowed, trying to ignore the multitude of very deadly instruments pointing his way and forcing the arm that was training his pistol on Barralon's head not to shake. While Kehren technically was in the right-he outranked Barralon, and was thus able to order him to do anything-drawing a weapon on the man was a severe breach of military protocol, possibly enough for a court-martial if news of this ever got out.

Which made his succeeding all the more important.

"What is the reason for this?" Ozzel demanded, attempting to step in between the two men.

"The reason is our survival," Kehren spat, his aim never wavering. Barralon had gone as pale as a ghost, shaking uncontrollably, and it took all of Kehren's willpower not to smile. "Stromtroopers," he said, shifting his gaze to the captain that commanded the bridge security detachment. He took a deep breath. "RP-slash-ninety-eight-dash-twelve."

That was the code given to him by the Emperor should he find it necessary to usurp command from Ozzel. In this situation, however, it would also prove tenable enough to establish his authority over Barralon.

Slowly, the stormtroopers lowered their weapons, returning them to the "at ease" position.

Ozzel was the first to recover, breaking the stunned silence that pervaded the bridge. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What was that you just said? What's going on here-?"

"It means that as of now, I am assuming tactical and strategic command of this mission, on orders from the Emperor himself," Kehren said. "If you need confirmation, read this." He produced a holodisk containing a direct copy of the Emperor's message from one of his pockets and handed it to Ozzel.

"And as your new commanding officer," he continued, addressing Barralon directly, "I hereby order you to consent your authorization."

The bridge was dead silent as everyone attempted to process the incredible upheaval that had just occurred. While the code itself was authentic, the shock was still a large factor.

"Now," Kehren said, holding his pistol steady at Barralon's head.

Ozzel began to open his mouth-to protest, no doubt-but he was cut off as Ostress spoke up again: "We've lost all communication with the railjet mainframe."

"You see, captain," Kehren said, his voice smooth, "the choice really is quite simple. You can refuse, and doom us all, or you can follow my orders and, if we live, I promise that I will not have you court-martialed for defiance of the Emperor's orders."

He slipped the safety off the DH-17. "Your choice."

Barralon was shaking like a leaf in a gale as he stared at the weapon pointed at his forehead. He opened his mouth and closed it again, chewing on his lower lip as he summoned his courage.

"No," he finally said. "No," he continued, his voice growing stronger as he gained conviction. "I don't care what orders you have, I cannot logically give in to this insanity and-"

"NOW!" Kehren roared, his voice booming out like the bellow of a krayt dragon as his arm tensed, his finger curling around the trigger.

Barralon jumped as if prodded with a stun baton, practically tripping over himself in his haste as he rushed over to Ostress's console, pressing his thumb to the biometric scanner that would consent his authorization to the ship's shutdown.

_And not a moment too soon, _Kehren thought as the steady background thrum of the _Malice_'s subsystems faded away, leaving behind a chilling silence. Every program unnecessary for the survival of the crew and the vessel shut down, leaving the bridge as quiet as a tomb, bathed in the dull red of emergency lighting, most of the console screens dark.

Kehren blew out a breath and holstered his pistol. He glanced over at Ozzel to see if the admiral had any more objections, but the man still seemed to be in a state of shell-shock, staring at the holodisk bearing the Emperor's crest in his hand with an expression that could only be likened to betrayal.

Whatever. The incompetent bumbler had already nearly crippled their campaign against this planet; had it not been for Kehren's counsel, Task Force Monolith likely would have been destroyed a long time ago.

"Now," he said, addressing the bridge crew as a whole. He needed to gain their respect quickly after such a tremendous upheaval in command, or the captain-crew relationship would not crystallize, blunting their combat capabilities. "Do we have any way of communicating through the intraship comms?"

"Negative," the senior communications chief replied. "The intercom is dead."

Kehren nodded. "Of course. But the individual unit comlinks should still work, correct?"

The communications chief frowned. "If they're close enough, then yes. Without the _Malice_'s mother network to piggyback the signals, their range will be severely hampered, but-"

Kehren held up a hand. "That's all I needed to know, thank you. As long as one unit can contact at least one other, we can use a relay system to get orders to those who need them. A bit primitive and slow, admittedly, but it's the best we can do given the circumstances."

A subdued buzz of conversation ran through the bridge as the officers muttered their approval to each other that Kehren had thought of a way around their communication breakdown so quickly. Kehren allowed himself a small grin; he was already getting through to them.

"Send out a general transmission explaining the situation. All troops are to initiate combat patrols until further notice. The intruders are to be found and eliminated immediately; we can't afford to try and capture them."

"Understood, sir," the communications chief said, beginning to swivel around.

"Oh," Kehren said, "and I know this is a grievous breach of broadcast protocol, but at the moment, we have no other method of secure communication." He took a deep breath. "Get the word to Colonel Narm that we may finally have a use for his…_creations._"

000

"Locked again?"

"Yeah," Matthias-D105 said, approaching the blast doors that had slid shut at the end of the hallway he and Laura had been advancing down, blocking their path. Red lights were illuminated on the door's edges, signifying that it was locked down.

Just like the last few doors they had come across. The Imperials must have tried to just shut down the ship, because all of a sudden all the lights had gone out, replaced by red backup illumination, and almost all of the doors locked down.

Not that a locked-down door was any serious obstacle for a Spartan-IV supersoldier, but they were still an inconvenience.

"I'll handle this one," Matthias said, slinging his M55 over the magnetic weapons strip on the back of his armor. "Cover me."

"What," Laura said as she took a knee facing behind them to cover him, "can't stand to let a lady do the heavy lifting?"

Matthias snorted in mirth and shook his head before approaching the doorway, eyeing the obstacle.

Those two blast doors cumulatively likely weighed in at near four tons, designed to stop enemy boarding parties from advancing any further.

What the designers of the ship had not taken into account, however, was the superhuman strength granted to a Spartan-IV supersoldier via bodily augmentations and the incredibly powerful suits of Mark-VIII MJOLNIR armor.

For a soldier that could flip over a seventy-ton tank, a mere blast door wasn't going to be much of a problem.

Reaching into one of his chest pouches, Matthias retrieved a small canister of C7 foaming explosive and sprayed a few ounces in the crack between the doors before inserting a remote fuse and stepping back. "Fire in the hole," he said, and stabbed the detonator.

There was a flash and a pop, followed by a cloud of smoke, and Matthias switched his helmet over to its LLVAS mode to cut through the blackness. Sur enough, a small rent had been torn in between the two doors, just as he had planned.

After slipping a fiber-optic probe through the crack to confirm that there were no hostiles on the other side waiting to cap him, Matthias widened his stance and braced himself, slipping his fingers into the tear in the doors and beginning to pull.

With a groan of stressed mechanics, the doors began to slide apart, screeching loudly and showering sparks as they were forced apart in a way they weren't designed to slide. Matthias's arms began to burn slightly, but he ignored it easily and kept pulling, his armor heightening his already impressive strength to unnatural levels.

In another few seconds, it was done, the two doors ripped apart as if by an explosion. Matthias grunted and stepped back, surveying his handiwork. A series of ridges was imprinted into the metal on both doors from where his gauntlets had gripped.

Beyond the door was another short stretch of hallway, leading to a four-way intersection. The holographic line they had been following curved around the left passageway, while an orange nav beacon on his HUD ticked down from four hundred meters as they began to move forward once again.

Retrieving his M55, Matthias waved Laura forward, and the two Spartans advanced through the gap. They jogged briskly through, weapons up and scanning for movement.

Even without the aid of the holographic line, it was likely that they wouldn't have had much trouble finding the central railjet terminal, seeing as there were directions painted on the wall with convenient arrows leading to it.

As the two Spartans jogged down the hallway, an even larger set of doors became visible at the end. Matthias steeled himself; as the fastest method of transportation throughout the ship, the railjet terminal was likely to be heavily guarded.

Matthias held up a fist as they approached, and the two Spartans slowed their speed to a walk, eyes flashing everywhere, scanning the hallway for traps. After flipping through LLVAS, thermal, and EMF vision, Matthias felt confident that the area was relatively secure, so he focused his attention on the remaining locked door that blocked their path.

These blast doors were obviously much larger and heavier than the ones they had breached barely minutes ago. On a hunch, he stepped up and slammed a fist against the metal, leaving a good-sized dent. But it was the sound he was paying attention to, the sound of a dull thump, cut off prematurely as if muffled by something on the other side.

"Now, I know that recon specialists are a bit crazy, but that doesn't mean you have to go around punching walls," Laura jibed. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Right," Matthias replied, trying not to smile. Like it or not, Laura's sense of humor grew on one rather quickly. "Actually, I was listening to the sound it made to determine if there was another set of doors behind it."

"And there is," Laura said. "I heard it, too. So, we blow our way in?"

"It would appear that is our best option," Matthias replied, reaching for his C7 foaming explosive again. Laura did the same, and together they sprayed the cracks all around the edges of the blast doors with the explosive. Laura inserted the detonator, and Matthias reached into another pouch for a half-pound brick of Artex plastic explosive. Able to be molded into a myriad of different shapes, incredibly stable until artificially detonated, and incredibly powerful, the compound was capable of destroying a Scorpion tank. Matthias worked quickly, absently wishing that Isaac were here; while as a Spartan, Matthias was capable of handling any weapon with ease, the assault specialist had always had a knack with explosives.

"Ready?" Laura asked, holding the detonator for the C7 in her hand as the two Spartans retreated to a safe distance.

Matthias merely nodded.

"Three, two, one, fire in the hole," Laura said.

Lines of fire sprang into existence in every seam of the first set of blast doors, and they peeled back like petals opening to reveal a flower. As soon as the second set of doors was exposed, Matthias sprinted forward, slammed the brick of Artex onto them, armed the detonator, and retreated a dozen meters back down the hallway. He had formed the explosive so that the explosion would go outwards, away from them, but when messing with something as powerful as Artex, he preferred to keep his distance.

Matthias pressed the detonator.

The entire hallway shook as the explosive went off with incredible force, ripping a massive hole in the second set of blast doors large enough to drive a Warthog through.

Matthias and Laura moved as one, sprinting forward with assault rifles raised. Their footfalls shook the ground, leaving dents in the floor as the armored supersoldiers entered the central railjet terminal.

It was a large room, Matthias noted, vaguely reminiscent of the underground MagLev train stations that crisscrossed many UEG colonies. The main area of the room consisted of a loading area, filled with boxes and crates of various sizes, while a series of steps led up to a platform next to a dark tunnel that extended in both directions. A single railjet car rested near the terminal, its running lights dark.

And a good two dozen stormtroopers were arrayed in defilade positions behind various pieces of cover, weapons up and spitting red lasers at the two Spartans.

Matthias charged forward, setting his eyes on a long crate that was a good three meters tall to his front and left. Ruby beams screamed through the air around him as he charged into shelter behind the crate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laura taking up a similar position on the right side of the railjet terminal.

Movement was the key to gaining the upper hand over a numerically superior enemy, Matthias knew. He armed and threw an M9J smoke grenade into the center of the terminal, putting up a screen of black smoke that would obscure his movements as he slipped around the crate and moved far out to the left behind a row of speeder bikes that provided a perfect enfilade position on the staggered front line of stormtroopers.

In a split-second, his M55 was up and firing, acquiring targets and eliminating them in quick, precise bursts. He moved from target to target with a seamless efficiency, dropping nearly half a dozen troopers before the others could respond. When the retaliatory hail of laserfire began, Matthias was already dropping back into cover. To the far right, he heard the muffled _crump_ of an M9-HE grenade, followed by a chatter of assault rifle fire as Laura worked her way up the Imperial right flank.

Matthias allowed himself a small, victorious grin; the two Spartans were in their element now; nothing could stop them.

Matthias realized that the troopers would likely still be waiting for him to reemerge from the same area he had gone to cover in, so he came around the opposite side of the row of speeder bikes instead, catching the troopers unawares. He centered his HUD reticle on the torso of one of the pristine-armored stormtroopers and pulsed the trigger, sending four rounds into the man's chest. Two of them were deflected by the armor, but the other pair punched straight through, sending him crashing to the floor.

His shields flashed as a flurry of lasers impacted him from the side, dropping the protective fields to half of their power. Immediately, he pivoted to face the threat while simultaneously dropping behind cover again. His motion tracker flashed an alert, and he glanced down, watching four hostile contacts edge onto the periphery of the device's 25-meter radius.

A flanking force. These stormtroopers weren't complete idiots after all.

Unfortunately for them, a Spartan was a terrible force to face in close combat.

Matthias glanced to his M55's digital ammo counter and found that he had only a few rounds remaining in his magazine. Lacking the time to properly reload it, he slung it over his back and drew his M6G sidearm, disengaging the safety and racking the slide to chamber the first of its eight 12.7mm semi-armor-piercing high-explosive rounds in one smooth motion.

Holding the pistol loosely in front of him, Matthias took a deep breath and whirled around the edge of the row of speeder bikes, his pistol up and firing as soon as he acquired the stormtroopers as targets.

With the raw destructive power of the 12.7mm SAPHE round in mind, Matthias stuck to double-taps, sending a pair of rounds towards each target. The rounds only had to penetrate a few centimeters through the stormtroopers' armor before they deonated, tearing the ribcage of the first man apart in a gory display.

The second man caught one round to the right shoulder, which succeeded in ripping apart most of the tendons and ligaments in his shoulder, leaving his arm half-attached, dangling loosely even as his raw scream of pain was cut off by another bullet to the neck that severed his head completely.

Matthias's HUD flashed a warning as his shields depleted even further under withering fire from the remaining two stormtroopers, who were now only a few meters away. Matthias fired off the remainder of his magazine, mortally wounding one of the stormtroopers. As he began to reload, the last stormtrooper drew a knife and flicked a switch, causing it to produce an ominous hum as he charged forward, intent on placing the blade through the Spartan's visor.

And thus he learned the folly of his choice the hard way.

The MJOLNIR MK VIII powered assault armor was designed especially for the Spartan-IV commandos. The Spartan's neural lace interfaces with a connection at the rear of the skull inside the helmet that translates electrochemical impulses into digital code, which are then routed to the correct limbs and re-translated as orders from the mind. The result was reaction times and speed that were literally off the charts.

The Spartan-IVs took the term "lighting fast" to an entirely different level.

As it was, the stormtrooper was still blinking, trying to ascertain where his adversary had gone, when Matthias came up from his somersault behind the trooper, having drawn his deadly combat knife mid-roll and holding it easily in the palm of his left hand. The stormtrooper began to spin around, attempting to raise his own weapon, but Matthias's hand was already wrapping around the trooper's chest, pinning him in a vicelike grip as the Spartan plunged his knife into the gap between the bottom of the stormtrooper's helmet and the top of his chest-plate, slicing through the webbing between the two protective articles. The blade slid into the man's neck with an almost sickening ease, but Matthias ignored the man's gurgling screams as he viciously and mercilessly sawed the blade across the man's neck, severing the jugular and carotid arteries in one swift motion before releasing the stormtrooper and driving his knee into the man's back, snapping the his spine like a twig. The stormtrooper's corpse slammed into the ground, bent backwards at an unnatural angle as blood pooled around the head.

Matthias didn't even pause to acknowledge his kill; gunfire from the other side of the terminal assured him that Laura was still fighting, and he could not take pause. He returned his knife to its sheath and reloaded his rifle and sidearm, checking both the ammo count on the M55 itself and the digital display on his HUD to confirm its battle-readiness before rejoining the fray.

The alliance of the humans and Covenant Separatists after the Great War had been a boon for the human race, and an even greater one for the outgunned, outmatched human military. While humanity had yet to develop a reliable plasma weapon that could be distributed en masse, the numerous leaps and bounds gained by studying Separatist technology had allowed them to reverse-engineer and even improve upon much of the Sangheili tech. Having relied upon the Prophets and Huragok for research and development for so many years, the Sangheili actually knew very little about how their own technology worked. Granted, they could use it with extreme effectiveness, but when it came to the inner workings of their own weapons and technology, they were often perplexed.

Which was where the humans came in. Being innovative rather than imitative, human scientists practically did somersaults at the opportunity to study Covenant tech. It was thus that an arrangement developed; the Sangheili would lend a piece of tech to the human scientists, who would study, reverse engineer, and improve upon it as necessary, in exchange for tutoring Sangheili representatives in the nature of their own gear.

It was a relationship that had thus far seen extreme successes, such as the energy shields on UNSC vessels and personnel. And while the Sangheili were still recovering from many centuries of being merely fighters and nothing else, their people had learned a great deal in the forty years since the war's end.

One of the greatest pinnacles in the integration of Covenant tech into human equipment was the MJOLNIR MK VIII. The MK VIII was the first suit in the history of the MJOLNIR program to be fitted with a fully operational active camouflage system, courtesy of the Sangheili.

Due to the amount of systems already incorporated into the MK VIII, however, the active camouflage could only run for short periods, about half a minute, before needing to recharge. All the same, those thirty seconds of near-invisibility were often all it took to turn the tide in a battle.

Matthias chinned a control at the eleven o'clock position, and felt the familiar sense of momentary confusion as he lost sight of his limbs. Moving around in active camo took a while to get used to; without being able to see your feet and arms, you often ended up bumping into things.

But for a Spartan-IV, who had trained with such a system since childhood, it was almost second nature. As soon as his body faded from sight, the light-bending technology blurring the outlines of his form until it seemed to shift and swirl before his eyes, he began to move up the left flank of the terminal.

One of the other disadvantages of the active camouflage systems installed in the MK VIII armor was that it was motion-sensitive; the faster you moved, the harder the system had to work to bend the light around you. Therefore, too much motion too fast would overtax the system, making the system all but useless. Matthias took a deep breath and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, moving slowly and making the most of his thirty seconds of near-invisibility.

When the ten-second warning blinked on his HUD, it found him to the far left and nearly behind the Imperial positions, all of whom were focusing their fire on Laura, who was taking shelter behind a stack of crates and trading accurate fire with her adversaries.

And he was in the perfect ambush position.

Over the din of the firefight, he heard one of the stormtroopers yell, "Where'd the other one go?"

_Right behind you_, thought Matthias, but didn't say it. Witty one-liners were great in action vids, but in real life, they often got you killed before anyone could appreciate the humor.

Instead, he let his rifle do the talking. A single chattering burst later, the curious stormtrooper had his question answered, although he never got to realize it.

Matthias moved from one target to the next with a methodical efficiency, dropping stormtrooper with quick bursts between the shoulder blades before they realized what was going on. Caught in between two Spartans, the rest of the firefight was over in a matter of minutes.

"Well, that was fun," Laura remarked as she strode up the flight of stairs past the multitude of white-armored corpses sprawled all over the floor in the various poses they had assumed at death. She kicked one of the bodies that was sitting up right against a crate, and Matthias winced at the sound of cracking ribs as it flopped limply over to the side.

"Define 'fun'," Matthias muttered turning back to the railjet car that was parked next to the terminal. "It doesn't look like it's active."

"Really?" Laura asked, coming up beside him. "Was it the fact that all its running lights are off or the fact that it's just sitting there doing nothing that tipped you off?"

Matthias didn't answer, choosing instead to step inside the car. While he had to stoop in order to fit inside, it only took a brief glance around the interior of the car to tell that it was unoccupied.

There were also no controls of any kind, save for an emergency stop button and a few scattered status screens. All of them were dark, confirming that the car was dead.

"Great," Matthias muttered, stepping out. If the car was dead, then they would have to get to the bridge the old-fashioned way; by walking.

Not that he didn't like walking, but there was a great deal to be said for efficiency.

"Still getting nothing on the COMs?" he asked.

"Affirmative," Laura replied. "There must be too many levels between us and them; the signals can't get through."

Matthias sighed. Without a way to contact the rest of the team, they had to fall back to their previous orders; hold the terminal until their teammates return.

Wordlessly, the two Spartans began to fortify their position, dragging crates and other semi-mobile pieces of cover into a staggered formation so that they could keep falling back if necessary. Matthias noted that there were three entrances to the main foyer of the terminal, and the Spartans had entered using the rightmost one. Matthias made a quick circuit, setting up a half-pound block of Artex on the side of each door so that if they opened, the blast would be sure to catch everyone nearby.

When that was finished, Matthias walked back over to the terminal, where Laura was wrestling a final crate into place. This felt so _wrong_, to be sitting, waiting inside an enemy ship. Boarding actions needed to be quick and decisive to succeed; if the Spartans took too long to regroup, the Imperials likely would first.

The two Spartans took up a position in the rough center of their impromptu fortifications, where they would have perfect defilade on all of the three openings.

Matthias's habit when he was anticipating enemy contact was to check over his weapons. He had just finished cycling the bolt on his M55 when he heard Laura start hers.

"So, an Elite and a Grunt walk into a bar…"

000

On the fourteenth sublevel, twenty-third ventral corridor of the _Malice_, hidden behind a cluster of grey and orange piping, there lay a door. And behind that door, there lay a room.

And in that small room, rubbing his hands together with anticipation, Colonel Agar Narth, Imperial Intelligence, was practically salivating at the word that had just arrived. As if to assure himself it was true, he glanced again at his data pad, reading once again with an almost childlike glee the orders that had been relayed down from the bridge.

_Release the hounds._

Following that were several lines of deployment orders, but Narth's focus remained on that first line. The order that the _Malice_'s greatest assets were to be engaged.

The Dark Trooper project had been started near the very end of the Clone Wars, ostensibly under the name of returning aged clone veterans to service. What the program's dossier didn't mention was that the clones who "volunteered" for the project were really inducted into the Empire's first cyborg supersoldier program. In order to restore them to peak fighting status, up to seventy percent of the clone's body would be removed and replaced by advanced cybernetics. With the physical advantages provided by the machinery and their extensive combat experience, the "Phase Zero" dark troopers were undeniably effective in the field.

However, the Zero Phase ran into problems when many of the clones, upset at their transformation and their having no choice in the matter, began to exhibit mental instabilities, some even attempting to kill themselves. When it became obvious that an augmented trooper was unreliable, at best, the aim of the project was shifted towards robotic soldiers.

Thus came the Phase I dark trooper. While still far from the final version (the Phase III dark troopers were not expected to come into service for several years, as that part of the project still had to be green-lit), the Phase Is were still a force to be reckoned with.

The Phase I dark troopers were essentially battle droids, but outfitted with a more impressive form of artificial intelligence than the type that had powered many of their distant cousins during the Clone Wars. For an armament, they were equipped simply with a vibrosword and a blast shield, as they were intended for close combat to sow terror among enemy ranks. However, their greatest advantage was their armor; plates of phrik, a nearly-indestructible metal that was highly resistant to energy weapons such as lightsabers.

Their original purpose had been to be Jedi-hunters. But now, a new purpose had been found for them.

Standing before him, newly awakened from hibernation, stood six fully operational Phase-I dark troopers. Towering over Narth at nearly two and a half meters tall, their matte-black armor plates that covered their whirring servos and their glowing red photoreceptors would have unsettled even the most experienced veteran.

Narth felt he had rarely seen a more beautiful thing in his life.

"These are your targets," he said, holding up his datapad with a still-frame image of the Spartan team on it, taken before the security cameras had been deactivated. "Study it well. Know them well, for you must destroy them."

There was no response from the droids. But, then again, Narth hadn't expected any. The Phase Is had likely already taken a picture of the datapad's screen and stored it, analyzing their targets for any potential weaknesses.

"No prisoners are to be taken," Narth concluded, crossing his arms. "Kill them. Kill them all."

The silence was beautiful. Narth stepped to the side, and quietly, the six deadly droids filed out.

000

"…and so then the bartender turns to the Grunt and says, 'I thought you breathed methane!'"

Matthias ducked down behind the crate in front of him, trying to decide what was worse; the multitude of stormtroopers streaming into the railjet terminal, or the punch line to Laura's joke that she had somehow managed to finish while still trading fire with the hostiles.

"That was great, admit it. You laughed," Laura said, and Matthias shook his head, a smile appearing on his face despite his best attempts to stop it.

"Did I ever tell you," he said as he set off the final Artex charge on the left doorway, incinerating five stormtroopers in a blast of flame, "that you are the most unprofessional Spartan I have ever worked with? And that's counting Isaac."

"You might have mentioned it a time or two," Laura said, firing a burst over the top of her cover and cutting down a charging pair of troopers, "but I don't seem to recall any reason why."

"A reason?" Matthias sputtered, wincing as a pair of bolts crashed into his shields, dropping them to eighty percent. He hid behind the crate for a moment, both to let them recharge and to prepare a response. "You're telling jokes in the middle of combat! How's that for a reason?" He stood up and rattled off another burst until the bolt clicked empty, and he dropped back down to reload. "And bad jokes at that!"

"I'm insulted," Laura sniffed, smoothly palming an M9-H grenade and tossing it into the midst of the swarming stormtroopers. Since stormtrooper armor had shown admirable resistance to the standard fragmentation grenades, the Spartans had switched to their dwindling supply of HE grenades, which used the increased explosive power to create a more intense blast wave, the overpressure of which often liquefied the internal organs of those not incinerated. Quite a horrible way to die, but Laura didn't seem to mind, as she continued, "but with the fight these guys are putting up, I need something else to entertain myself with."

"Entertain yourself?" Matthias practically choked, glad this conversation was on private COMs and that the rest of the team couldn't hear the two Spartans chatting away like old housewives in the midst of battle. "We're in the middle of a firefight!"

"And a very boring one at that," Laura said. "I've seen Grunts put up a better fight that this." She proved her point by putting a burst into the head of a stormtrooper that was charging directly up their left flank, splitting his head open like an overripe watermelon. "Bet I can get more headshots in a row than you."

Matthias felt like crying. "You're insane," he growled as he cut down another rpair of troopers. "Batshit insane. Especially if you think you can take the marksmanship specialist in a marksmanship contest."

"Be careful what you say," Laura warned, her tone inappropriately cheerful as she systematically gunned down another trooper before finally stopping to reload. "I do outrank you, after all."

"Proof that God has a sense of humor," Matthias deadpanned under his breath, ducking behind the crate to let his shields recharge as he considered making a run to the right.

But when he stuck his head up again, he was greeted with a strange sight.

The remaining stormtroopers, nearly a platoon's worth of soldiers, were retreating. He blinked, surprised. So far, the Imperial troops had displayed an incredible determination, even if they were outmatched by the Spartans. He highly doubted they would withdraw unless they had specific orders to.

Which meant that the Imperials thought they had a trump card in hand.

"Five, you seeing what I'm seeing?" Laura asked.

"Affirmative, Six," Matthias responded, glancing around uneasily.

"And you're thinking what I'm thinking?" she pressed.

"Affirmative," Matthias replied tersely. "Watch your six."

The two Spartans slowly withdrew back towards the railjet car and tracks, where either end of the tunnel faded into blackness.

A brief flash of red suddenly sluiced across Matthias's motion tracker, denoting an unknown, and therefore likely hostile, contact. Matthias whirled around, assault rifle up, and flipped through both LLVAS and thermal vision modes. Nothing.

"See something?" Laura asked, coming over to him.

"My tracker picked something up in the tunnel," he said. "I can't find anything, though."

"I got something, too," Laura said. "Want to go check it out?"

Matthias thought for a moment. If they ventured into the inky blackness of the tunnel, they would be leaving behind their defenses and fortifications. On the other hand, it would allow them to remain mobile, and perhaps meet and counter the threat before it engaged them.

"Yeah, briefly," Matthias said.

"Alright," Laura said. "We'll go a couple dozen meters down. If we can't find anything, we'll fall back."

Matthias nodded, switching over to LLVAS in order to navigate in the pitch darkness of the railjet tunnel, broken only by the occasional island of red from an emergency light.

The two Spartans advanced slowly down the hallway, far enough apart so that a single attack would not hit them both but close enough to provide support if necessary. Matthias took point, relying on his training and combat experience to guide him through the tunnel. Their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud to the Spartans' enhanced hearing as they echoed off of the walls. Matthias kept his head constantly on the swivel, scanning the tunnel and the piping that ran along the sides and ceiling. He felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck, as if something was watching him in the darkness.

That little sixth sense had saved Matthias's life many times before. He knew when to trust it.

Matthias switched over to thermal vision, scanning the hallway for the bright reds and oranges that would signify a hot, living contact. While some advanced armor suits were capable of hiding soldiers from thermal scans, the gear in the MJOLNIR MK VIII's helmet was the most highly advanced detection gear in the Orion Arm, and Matthias knew to look for the odd blue edges that would signify a person suited in armor with a refrigerating unit.

Nothing. The tunnel was clean, the only colors being the subdued blues and greens of the walls and the occasional streak of yellow through the piping overhead.

Nothing.

Matthias still didn't feel completely secure, but he wanted to return to their positions in case the rest of November Team decided to put in an appearance. With a single hand-signal, the two Spartans began to withdraw back down the dark tunnel.

And then, there was another flash of red, at the very edge of the 25-meter range of Matthias's motion tracker. He whirled around, weapon up, scanning everywhere for motion. A motion tracker might malfunction once, but twice? That was nigh impossible.

There was something in the tunnel with them.

But Matthias could see nothing. Beside him, Laura also seemed uneasy, muttering to herself as she pointed her rifle at anything that looked slightly suspicious.

Matthias flipped to thermal once again, hoping to catch the heat generated by an enemy with an active camouflage unit, but once again, the hallway was cold.

What sort of enemy didn't show up on MK VIII thermal goggles? Even Grunts, in their chilled environmental suits, had a negative thermal image.

It was then that a calm, clear voice in the back of his mind responded, _an enemy that's not alive_.

Matthias swore, abruptly realizing that he had forgot to check EMF, or electro-magnetic field, vision. EMF vision was usually used to detect electrical currents running through objects, but it was also useful for spotting unmanned combat drones such as Wombat UCAVs. Cursing his oversight, he immediately switched his vision mode.

Blinking slightly to get used to the strange vision mode, Matthias concentrated. Most of the hallway was blue, signifying that it was void of any EMF contacts. Several white lines ran through the walls where an emergency power line ran, but other than that, the hallway was clean.

Except for a massive signature, vaguely humanoid in shape, that lurked in the darkness barely thirty meters away.

Matthias swore, switching back to LLVAS as he brought his rifle up to fire. But as soon as the unknown hostile saw his movement, it sprang into motion. Matthias's burst missed, the bullets sparking off the floor as his motion tracker exploded with red.

The hostile covered the thirty meter distance in incredible time, speed that rivaled a Spartan. Before Matthias could refocus his aim, a massive, dark shape slammed into him. His shields flared as he stumbled backwards, and his rifle went flying out of his grasp, clattering to the tunnel floor ten meters away.

**A/N: BUAHAHAHAHA!  
>I know I'll get mail from Halo fans saying that a Spartan would beat the ever-living shit out of a dark trooper, but even a Spartan can be taken by surprise. Please reserve your judgment until the actual fight. <strong>

**Anyways, I'm rather proud of this chapter. My muse worked his butt off to give Kehren's assumption of command the right feel, so I'd appreciate some feedback one how that little not-mutiny went. :)**


	17. Payback

Chapter XVII

**A/N: School starts in three days now, and I'll probably have about a half-hour to an hour of writing time per day once that happens. I hope to update DUO at least every week to week-and-a-half, and HYDRA and Ashes once every three weeks-month. Sorry to anyone who's a fan of those stories, but DUO is my main focus right now.**

**Anyways, I've promised Anakin and Ahsoka several times now, and failed to deliver. Finally, however, my muse managed to kick me enough times to get this up. To those who were looking forward to some Jedi-y goodness, Merry Christmas. To those who weren't, well, what's your problem anyways? JK**

**Also, on a soundtrack note: you may want to listen to the Transformers score "Arrival to Earth" at the end of this chapter. I did when writing it, and it really kind of influence dhte mood. But, that's just a suggestion ;)**

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

Above Nylson Fields, Illerean Subcontinent

0323 hours, March 31st, 2593

"Now, tell me again which ones do what."

Anakin sighed and turned to face the man behind him who was dressed in the grey camouflage of the UNSC Air Force. "The black cord on the right side unfurls the primary chute; the red cord on the right side deploys the reserve, and the tabs over the shoulders release the unit," he responded dutifully.

"Good," said Master Sergeant Erick Groves, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest as if finally satisfied. "We'll make paratroopers out of you two yet."

"Why can't we just use rocket packs or something?" grumbled Ahsoka Tano, off to Anakin's left as she struggled to adjust a strap across her chest. "Don't you guys have those?"

"Yes, we do," Groves growled irritably, stalking over to her. The massively built man was well over two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, and just under the Air Force's maximum height limit for a Pelican crewman of six and a half feet tall. He towered over the young Togrutan Jedi, but Ahsoka stared back up at him fearlessly.

"However, rocket packs are just that; packs with rockets," he said. "They may be faster, but the Imperials will see or hear you coming from a mile away. You need to get in quietly, and there's nothing better than the Falcon Wing for that purpose."

"It itches," Ahsoka complained, tugging at the straps of the Falcon Wing aerial descent unit that dug into her back.

"Welcome to the military, ma'am," Groves deadpanned in response. "Now, I'll be heading back to the cockpit. If you two need anything, a flight attendant will be along shortly with beverages and peanuts."

"Peanuts?" Ahsoka asked after Groves had vanished into the cockpit.

"No idea," Anakin muttered, wincing as a strap dug into his side when he attempted to lace up his boots. "Krif, these things are tight."

"Well, we are going to be jumping out of an aircraft with them," Ahsoka responded, trying to move as little as possible. "I suppose you wouldn't them to come loose during the fall."

"Don't remind me," Anakin muttered.

When he had proposed their mission to destroy the remaining Imperial AT-ATs back at the UNSC command center, it had sounded like a good idea to him.

Now, twenty-five thousand feet above the ground in an aircraft they referred to as a Pelican, preparing to jump out into the night with nothing but a flimsy piece of cloth between him and gravity, however, he was beginning to rethink his decision.

It wasn't that he was afraid of heights. As a child, Anakin had piloted Podracers through the twisting canyons and ravines of his home planet of Tatooine, which took incredible reflexes and an ability to ignore fear. If anything, it had been exhilarating.

However, Anakin regarded the "Falcon Wing", or whatever they called it, with a jaundiced eye. He was used to making such jumps with portable rocket packs that allowed for safe, controllable descent. And while he had been given a crash course in how to control the "parachute" by pulling on two straps on either side of the parafoil, he didn't quite trust the flimsy-looking material stuffed into the pack.

The fact that there was a reserve chute also worried him.

Despite his reservations, however, Groves' words made sense. All jetpacks he had ever used were either loud or highly visible; it was the bane of their existence. And since the plan called for them to make a stealthy aerial insertion into the Imperial FOB, that avenue of approach would be literally shot down.

The plan as it stood at the moment was relatively simple, belying its danger. The two Jedi would be executing what Sergeant Groves had called a "High-Altitude, Low-Opening" jump and land on the northernmost side of the Imperial FOB. On its return journey, after the two Jedi had hit ground, the Pelican would drop an EMP bomb that would scramble all motion, proximity, and thermal sensors on that side of the Imperial perimeter for several minutes, hopefully giving the Jedi enough time to sneak into the camp.

The colonel that had planned out most of this operation-Li, he had called himself-had assured them that the Allies would have assets in place to cover their retreat if they succeeded, but only for a short while. They would have to make it in and out quickly, before they ran out of darkness.

Anakin's earbud buzzed, the sound of Grove's gruff baritone filling his ears. "Approaching the drop zone in five minutes."

"Lovely," he muttered, making sure his lightsaber was secure at his hip. The last thing he needed was to be unarmed in the midst of an Imperial base.

Ahsoka, meanwhile, had moved to the very end of the bay, where the gigantic metal door was sealed shut. A video screen on the wall showed the view from a camera on the Pelican's nose.

Right now it was completely black. Not exactly the most comforting sign.

Anakin began to make his way over to her when the Pelican abruptly lurched to the left. Anakin swore as his boot slipped, sending him crashing into the side of the troop bay. He had just begun to right himself when the dropship shuddered again before finally settling.

Anakin glanced around, making sure the craft was indeed stable before moving again. "What was that?" he asked concernedly into the mike Groves had given him. "Are we under fire."

"Nah," came the response of one of the pilots. "Just a little bit o' turbulence."

Anakin sighed in relief and eyed one of the seats along the edge of the troop bay, but that was when Groves called out, "Three minutes."

Anakin went back over his pack, reviewing everything Groves had told him in his head, what to do in what situation. For only being a simple cloth, these parachutes were surprisingly complicated.

He finished the check by doing several of what Groves had called, "jumping jacks," making sure that nothing snagged or caught. From what he had gathered throughout the Master Sergeant's lecture, snags to a paratrooper were the equivalent of a malfunctioned blaster to a soldier. He also inserted the mouthpiece for his oxygen tank; at this altitude, the air was thin, and the small tank would allow him to reach a safe altitude for breathing before he dropped it.

Finally, he reached into the pack and retrieved a pair of NODs, or night observation devices. Since there hadn't been enough time for the two Jedi to be equipped with full UNSC helmets and the LLVAS systems they provided, the NODs were the next best thing. While they didn't provide the same sophisticated IFF system as the LLVAS, they still made it much easier to see during darkness.

Ahsoka did the same, slipping the device over her eyes. Anakin couldn't help but smirk. Combined with her montrals, the NODs gave her a strange profile when viewed from the side.

"What?" Ahsoka asked irritably as she struggled to secure the NODs.

"You look like a Gungan," he said with a well-meaning grin.

Ahsoka quirked one eyebrow upwards. "Oh, really? Well, you look like a-"

Whatever undoubtedly hideous creature Anakin looked like was fated to remain a mystery, however, as Groves' voice echoed into their ears once again: "One minute to insertion."

The two Jedi immediately strode to the end of the bay, all conversation forgotten as the jump neared.

"Thirty seconds!" Groves said. Anakin licked his lips and braced his legs for the jump.

At twenty seconds, the door began to open. The hiss of the hydraulics was quickly drowned out, however, by the roar of the night air rushing past the open door. Anakin squinted as his eyes fought to adjust to the inky blackness speeding past.

"Ten seconds!"

Anakin grasped the edge of the bay for stability as he edged farther out, the wind ripping at his clothing with the ferocity of a cornered beast. He was suddenly grateful for the tightness of the straps he had been bemoaning mere minutes earlier; in winds like this, any loose equipment would be torn away in the blink of an eye.

When he thought about it, the pitch blackness outside that he needed to jump into was quite disconcerting. Until he got close enough to the ground so that his NODs could pick up the Imperial base, he wouldn't know if he was on target or off. A glance to his left showed Ahsoka staring out into the night with a steely determination.

_C'mon, Skyguy_, Anakin thought to himself. _What kind of a nickname with that be if you can't even bring yourself to jump out of an aircraft?_

"Five seconds!"

Anakin took a deep breath and flashed a thumbs-up to Ahsoka before the two Jedi began their run towards the open door. He got to the lip and felt the wind tearing at him, and then, before that sane portion of his mind could scream at him to reconsider the fact that he was about to jump out of a dropship at twenty-five thousand feet, he flexed his thighs and leapt.

Anakin Skywalker was a man who had grown up as a slave on the desert world of Tatooine and driven Podracers in a sport that most humans didn't have the reflexes for. After his liberation by the Jedi, he had rapidly trained and shown himself to be one of the most promising Knights in the Order, a title he bore with a certain amount of arrogance. His skill with the lightsaber and the Force were matched by few, and his confirmed kill count was one of the highest among the forces of the Republic.

He was not a man accustomed to feeling powerless.

That said, the feeling of complete, total, and utter helplessness that flooded him as soon as his feet left the metal of the Pelican was one of the most terrifying moments of his life.

The Pelican was gone, flashing by overhead in an instant. His stomach threatened to lurch up into his throat as he began to plummet, the freezing air ripping past him like a thousand tiny knives. Fighting to keep the contents of his stomach down, he forced himself to assume the spread-eagle position that would slow down and stabilize him; elsewise, he risked being tossed about by the winds like a leaf. It took all of his strength not to reach up and pull the cord to deploy his parachute immediately.

The second thing he noticed was the sound. The noise of rushing air and wind was nearly deafening. Now he realized why the signal to open his pack would be delivered by a vibrating altimeter on the side of his jump helmet; he wouldn't be able to hear any type of audial cue.

Finally, once he had reached terminal velocity, and his form had stabilized somewhat, Anakin glanced around. It was pitch-black, as he had noticed before, but he could just barley pick out the dim flashes of light that marked the ongoing battle in Emerald Haven.

A wide grin suddenly spread across his face. Free-fall like this was terrifying, true, but there was also a certain sense of exhilaration that came with it. The feeling of being at the mercy of the winds was so new and foreign to him that it was almost like the first rush of a new drug.

He'd have to try this again sometime.

The maelstrom of night winds continued to tear at him as he plummeted like a rock towards the surface of New Arcadia. A buzzing in his mouthpiece warned him that his small oxygen tank was nearly depleted, and that the altitude was now safe for breathing. He quickly spat it out, reveling in his first breath of the sweet night air, before shrugging the tank off and allowing it to plummet below.

It did not seem long afterwards that his altimeter began to shake like a beast possessed, alerting him that he had reached the designated altitude for the low-opening part of the jump to come into effect. Mourning slightly at the fact that he would now have to slow down, he reached back and pulled the deployment cord.

Thankfully, nothing tangled or snarled, and the chute release went smoothly.

Anakin's deceleration, however, did not.

The sudden jerk upwards as his parachute billowed open dug the straps of his harness into his chest with an abrupt violence that caused him to hack like a drunkard as the air was forced out of his lungs. The g-forces pushing on him as he rapidly decelerated constricted around his chest as if trying to squeeze the life out of him before finally decreasing as his speed began to equalize again.

Now, however, instead of the exhilarating plummet of seconds before, his speed was much slower, almost seeming like a lazy drift compared to free-fall.

Now that his speed had decreased, he was able to reach up and activate his NODs. The transformation was instantaneous and gratifying. No longer was he blind. The goggles displayed his surroundings in an eerie green light, allowing him to see around him where before he never would have.

He glanced around, and finally picked out Ahsoka's form, above and to the left of him. Her chute was also wide open, catching the air to keep her velocity contained.

Anakin began to revise his opinion about this 'mere piece of cloth.'

He returned his vision to the ground, now able to pick out the lights of the Imperial base amidst the graveyard of destroyed Acclamators. The base's construction was simple, as was to be expected of a temporary base of operations until the city was captured. Consisting of mainly pre-fab structures shipped down from the Imperial fleet above, it was laid out in a grid-like method, with a low duracrete wall and guard towers surrounding it. Even from this altitude, Anakin was still able to pick out the eight remaining AT-ATs with the help of his NODs, their massive, hulking, quadruped forms looming over the base like a pack of primeval beasts.

Anakin pulled on the left cord of his parachute, and the chute twisted inwards, the new currents turning him with surprising speed towards a softer landing on a patch of wooded hills to the north of the Imperial base.

The remainder of the trip down was almost peaceful. The night winds grew calmer as they descended, and when his altimeter read that they were nearing five thousand feet, Anakin pulled on the left cord again, bringing him closer to the crest of the hill that was his target.

A quick glance up confirmed that Ahsoka was still with him, pulling into formation. With any luck, the two would hit ground relatively close to each other.

The last mile to the earth went quickly. They drifted even closer to the ground, skirting over the Imperial base. The ground seemed to rush up with alarming speed, and before Anakin knew it, his altimeter was ticking off the numbers from one thousand feet.

Anakin began to scan the trees for a clearing, anything that would help him to avoid snagging his chute in the branches. His keen eyes spotted one towards the right side of the hillcrest, and he adjusted his heading accordingly.

The ground grew larger and larger as he descended, and before he knew it, he was crashing through the upper layer of the tree canopy, having undershot his target clearing. He winced as branches clawed at his face, the speed of his descent allowing some to draw blood. Others snagged in his chute, but the fabric was tough and did not rip. He glanced down and saw he was just about twenty feet above the ground, close enough to jump. He hit the quick-release tabs for his chute, disentangling himself from its billowy mass and using the Force to slow his fall.

His boots hit the dirt with a soft thump, and he paused for a moment to revel the feel of real ground under his feet.

A flick of a finger brought the chute floating down to him, and he quickly folded it back up, stowing it under a nearby rock so as to minimize its chances of being found by a roving patrol.

"Snips," he whispered into his comlink. "You here yet?"

"One step ahead of you, Skyguy," came the response. "I'm at the bottom of the hill. You'd better get down here quick; that Pelican's going to drop the EMP bomb any minute now, and we won't have much time to get in."

"Right away, Master," Anakin said with a grin as he set off through the trees, and he could hear Ahsoka give a snort of amusement before she cut the channel.

The patch of forest on top of this hill was rather small, and it only took him about a minute to come to the edge. He glanced down, and was surprised to find that it was rather steep. A rocky scree extended down the length of the hill, with several stunted bushes that grew on the windward side being the only handholds.

Fortunately, Anakin had other means of bypassing such obstacles.

He leaped out into space, calling upon the Force to aid his jump and bring him safely down to the bottom. Several hundred meters of open grassland ahead lay the perimeter wall of the Imperial base, although that ground was likely mined. Anakin had been assured that the EMP bomb would disable most types of mines, but that little bit of room for error weighed in the back of his mind. He would like to keep both of his legs, if possible.

Anakin extended his mind, searching for his former apprentice's presence.

"Right here," said Ahsoka, rendering his search pointless.

Anakin slowly turned around, smoothing down the hair on the back of his neck. "You know it annoys me when you do that," he said calmly.

"I think you're just jealous," Ahsoka replied with a hint of a grin as she stepped out from behind a rock outcropping.

"Maybe a little," Anakin admitted. He checked his chronometer. "That EMP bomb should be dropping any time now."

The Jedi had scarcely finished his sentence when the lights on the northern perimeter abruptly winked out, plunging the low duracrete wall into darkness.

"Well, that was convenient," Anakin muttered.

"Come on," Ahsoka said, already bounding forward. "We've got to get inside before the scanners come back online."

"I thought I was the one in charge here," Anakin murmured as he fell into an even stride beside the Togruta, calling upon the Force to maintain the steady lope for the distance to the Imperial perimeter.

They had made it halfway across the open field when a prickling in the back of Anakin's mind caused his eyes to widen. "Get down!" he hissed, grabbing Ahsoka's arm as he dove to the ground. Without complaint, she fell down beside him, the tall grasses swallowing them up in a sea of gently waving strands.

"Patrol?" she asked, her voice scarcely a whisper.

"Yeah," Anakin said. He closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force to ascertain the makeup and position of the Imperials. "What can you tell me about them?"

Ahsoka looked at him with an annoyed expression. "Is now really the best time to test me?"

"Force of habit," he whispered back. "The question still stands."

Ahsoka sighed, but relented. She closed her eyes in concentration, and opened them again a few seconds later. "Small patrol, squad-sized a hundred meters to our left and front. Ten troopers, one speeder bike roving the area."

Anakin nodded appreciatively. "Exactly what I deduced."

"So, how do we get past them?" Ahsoka asked, keeping her voice low.

"That depends," Anakin said. "If they continue their patrol, we can't move, or we could run right into them. If they head to the gate to figure out what's going on, we might be able to slip past."

"They're clone tr-_storm_troopers," Ahsoka corrected, still obviously reconciling herself with recent events, and Anakin couldn't help but sympathize. "Unless they get called off, they'll continue with their current orders."

"Well, it looks like they've been called off," Anakin said, raising himself just above the billowing grasses to observe the Imperial patrol as they began to angle towards the gate.

"Convenient," Ahsoka muttered, rising to a crouch and dusting herself off. "Now, we should probably go before the scanners come back online."

"Good to know I taught you something," Anakin replied as they began to move through the fields again, albeit at a slower pace, keeping just low enough so as to be under the sight line of any more roving patrols.

The wind picked up as they crossed the remainder of the field, which was a boon to the two Jedi, as it sent rippling waves across the tall grasses, smoothing out the wake that the Jedi created as they moved.

The perimeter lights were still dark as they approached, but Anakin knew that the base techs would be working on it. They didn't have much time.

Finally, they were sheltered at the base of the perimeter wall. Anakin leaned up against the solid construction, taking a brief moment of rest. "You ready?" he asked Ahsoka.

"As ever," she replied.

The wall surrounding the Imperial base was ten meters high and fifteen meters thick of solid, fast-drying duracrete. Interspersed with reinforced bastions and towers with ramparts that allowed Imperial soldiers to take up superior firing positions on any advancing force.

For the two Jedi, however, it may as well have been a picket fence for the obstacle it presented.

Two dark shapes came flying over the wall, their black forms nearly indistinguishable from the night around them. They passed out of sight in a second, gone before any Imperial wondering by could rub his eyes and squint for a second look.

Anakin tucked in his knees as he landed, rolling across the earth to lessen the impact of the drop. The two Jedi had landed next to a large pre-fab structure he assumed was a barracks, as he could hear the sounds of conversation inside. Anakin edged out to peer from behind it, examining what lay before them.

Even at this late hour, a steady flow of men and equipment moved through the 'streets' of the base, vehicles and troopers headed to the front. Four-man patrols jogged endless circuits through the staggered high-intensity floodlights that illuminated the base grounds at sporadic intervals.

"So, Master," Ahsoka whispered, sidling up to him. "What's the plan?"

"We can't rely on using the streets, that much is obvious," he muttered back. "We'll have to move slowly. Shadow to shadow, cover to cover. Got it?"

"Got it," Ahsoka confirmed.

The Jedi stayed there for another minute, memorizing the patrol patterns of the roving stormtroopers. When the street was empty, they darted across to a pool of darkness formed in the shadow of a line of self-propelled artillery carriages.

After that, it was all instinct.

Anakin had participated in numerous stealth missions during his years as a general of the Republic. Whether they included hunting down a smuggling ring on Abregado Rae or investigating rumors of a new prototype vehicle on a CIS-controlled planet, they all had one thing in common; they required stealth. A single alerted guard could blow the entire operation. As a result, Anakin liked to think that his skills in stealth and evasion were respectable.

But at barely over sixteen years of age, his Padawan learner Ahsoka Tano blew them out of the water.

The Togruta were a predatory species by nature, stalking their prey in the tall grasses of their homeworld. Stealth to them was an inbred instinct, a habit that came as naturally as breathing, enhanced by their keen senses of hearing and smell. Ahsoka seemed to know exactly how to move and where to go to avoid detection; she darted from shadow to shadow like a wraith, freezing whenever a patrol neared and waiting until they passed to move again. Her footfalls were silent, leaving barely an imprint in the grass as she moved lightly on her feet. By contrast, Anakin felt like a rancor stumbling to keep up, his breathing unnaturally loud in his own ears as his heart hammered so loudly within his chest that he was certain a passing stormtrooper would hear.

The two Jedi flitted their way ever deeper into the Imperial base, skirting the tempting ammunition dumps and barracks in favor of the motor pool at the far eastern end.

And, more specifically, the eight massive war machines that stood at its rear.

"Hold," Ahsoka whispered, placing her hand out to block Anakin's path as they came to the corner of a low bunker in sight of the motor pool. Trusting his Padawan's intuition, Anakin fell back into the darkness, and a moment later, a patrol of stormtroopers jogged past.

"Good call," he whispered, to which Ahsoka replied with a toothy grin, "Always be aware of your surroundings, right, Master?"

Anakin gave a small smile in response, and then edged his head out again, this time making sure to search the area with the Force for any Imperial presence before commencing his reconnaissance.

The motor pool was kept separate from the rest of the base by a tall linked durasteel fence, which Anakin would bet his lightsaber was electrocuted. A single gate was visible ont his side of the fencing, a huge double-door affair that would admit even the massive AT-ATs through, protected by several guardhouses and no less than a dozen stormtroopers.

Contained behind the fencing was a large open sward, covered with line upon line of vehicles ranging from speeder bikes to the new 2-M fighter tanks to Self-Propelled Medium Artillery walkers. Several guard towers on the perimeter of the fencing swept searchlights over the field at random intervals, revealing hordes of ground support and maintenance crews swarming over the vehicles or unloading stacks of crates from repulsorsleds.

And behind all that activity, looming over the motor pool like behemoths crept from the primordial soup, were the eight towering AT-ATs.

"Over the fence?" Ahsoka asked.

"Unless you want to try out your negotiating skills on the guards, that looks like our only option," Anakin muttered in response.

"Master Kenobi would approve," Ahsoka teased.

Anakin began to smile, but it vanished before it truly reached his lips. Ahsoka's comment, while no doubt well-intentioned, was just another reminder of the losses the Jedi Order had incurred. Anakin had no way of knowing whether his former Master was still alive. Even though it had barely been a week since they parted, it seemed like a small lifetime.

During his apprenticeship, Anakin had found Obi-Wan's careful, measured approach to everything quite maddening.

Now, he found himself missing that steady, guiding oversight. He was in over his head in all of this; his decisions would have ramifications far beyond what he intended them, and could possibly make or break an alliance with the UEG.

And he wished that he could hear that calm voice just one more time, urging him to take a step back and reconsider everything.

Ahsoka frowned, sensing her master's sudden melancholy. "I'm sorry, Master," she said. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Anakin assured her, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "I can't afford to get philosophical now." He dropped back into cover as another patrol jogged past, and then turned back to Ahsoka. "Well, the night's not getting any younger. Shall we?"

If the duracrete wall around the base hadn't been any problem, the fence around the motor pool was almost an insult to the two Jedi. A quick leap and they were over, inside the secure ground without as much as a whisper.

Now was where things got serious, where the proverbial ante was upped. While most of the men in the motor pool were mechanics or supply sergeants, the chance of detection skyrocketed with the searchlights that traced their random paths across the ground. The Jedi were forced to make their advance piecemeal, taking shelter behind stacks of crates or rows of tanks while the searchlight passed over, simultaneously striving to avoid any contact with the Imperials.

After what seemed like the longest five minutes of Anakin's life, the two Jedi were finally poised to make their move. Crouched behind the legs of an SPMA walker, Anakin surveyed their targets.

The eight walkers were arranged in a row, clustered relatively close together so as to be easier to guard. A handful of stormtroopers stood in the shadow of the metal behemoths, ostensibly standing guard.

Clones were supposed to be the pinnacle of what a soldier aspired to be; always obedient, bred from birth to follow any order and perform at peak levels every hour of every day.

But just like any human being, they were not immune to boredom. And Anakin knew that after hours of guarding the same machines that weren't going anywhere, this particular group was by no means any better than their brethren. It showed in the laxness of their posture, the casual way they held their blasters at their waist, and the low buzz of conversation.

Bored troops were easily distracted, which would provide the Jedi with the opportunity they needed.

After explaining his plan to Ahsoka, Anakin straightened up, dusting off his clothes and sliding off his NODs as he slid his lightsaber into the folds of his vest.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from behind the walker, into plain view of the Imperial guards.

Normally, the stormtroopers would have been calling out orders to freeze and drop to the ground as they surrounded him with raised blasters. However, the fault of creating soldiers that were bred to follow orders unquestioningly was that it made their minds susceptible to influence by someone who knew just where to nudge.

Say, a Jedi Knight with extensive knowledge of the Force mind trick.

With a wave of his hand that appeared to be a casual greeting but merely added to the hypnotic effect of the Force ploy, he approached the half-dozen troopers with his head cocked slightly to the side and a lopsided grin. "Sergeant?" he said, identifying the guards' leader by the red stripes painted on his armor.

"What…who…identify yourself," the sergeant said, stumbling over his words. His tone was slightly thick, almost intoxicated, as he tried to fight off the effects of the Force influence.

"Identify?" Anakin said, making his tone one of wounded pride as he sought to buy time for Ahsoka. "Surely, a man as famous as I-" he made a grand, sweeping gesture, "-is not required to identify himself."

There was a pause, a longer pause than normal when one was dealing with a clone soldier. But then, if this exchange had ran anywhere close to normal, Anakin would be on the ground with half-a-dozen blasters aimed at the small of his back. He looked around, gauging the stance of the other troopers that had formed a rough semi-circle around him. His steady pressure on their minds was keeping them fairly docile for now, but he didn't want to try his luck any longer than necessary.

"Who…who're you?" The sergeant struggled to force the words out, his tone thick with confusion.

Anakin caught a flash of movement over the trooper's shoulder, and a quick Force probe confirmed that Ahsoka was nearby. Without his NODs however, there was no way for him to visually confirm it was her. He would just have to keep buying time.

"Who am I?" he asked. "Who am I?" he repeated, his voice growing slightly louder as he wracked his brain for a plausible story. "Why, I am…I am…Rayden Hentress, of course!" he said, picking the first name that came to mind and wincing at how lame it must sound.

Apparently, the trooper agreed with him. "N-never heard of you," the trooper said, his tone becoming slightly more lucid as Anakin's Force influence over him began to diminish. Redoubling his efforts, Anakin continued, "Surely you have heard of me, the greatest supply coordinator in the history of the Repub-ah, that is, _Imperial_ army."

"You don't look like a supply coordinator," the sergeant pointed out with indubitable logic in spite of his mentally drugged state.

"Haha," Anakin said, forcing that ridiculous grin onto his face once again as he mentally flailed about for a new line as the other stormtroopers began to shift about uneasily, the effects of the mind trick beginning to wear off. _Where was Ahsoka?_ "Well _you_, my friend, don't look like a supply coordinator either."

Anakin cringed as the words left his mouth. Where the hell had something that idiotic come from? You don't look like a supply coordinator either? Honestly?

"No-" the sergeant began, but was cut off as he was suddenly lifted off the ground by some unseen force and slammed viciously into the two troopers to his left, taking them down in a flurry of tangled limbs and rifles. Recognizing Ahsoka's move, Anakin acted immediately, reaching out with the Force and similarly flinging the two remaining troopers backwards into the legs of the nearest AT-AT. They hit with the sickening sound of snapping bones before sliding to the ground.

Ahsoka materialized out of the darkness, kneeling by the tangle of troopers she had brought down to make sure they were truly knocked out. Satisfied, she stood up and looked at him. "Actually, I kind of thought he looked like a supply coordinator…" she let the taunt hang.

"Shut up," Anakin growled, brushing past her as he slipped on his NODs, dragging the bodies back into a patch of shadow. "I was improvising."

"Quite poorly, apparently," Ahsoka replied without missing a beat, and Anakin rolled his eyes, not turning to meet that insufferable grin he knew would be smeared across her face. "You got your charges, Snips?" he asked instead, changing the subject and hearing her sniff of annoyance at his nickname for her with satisfaction.

"Right here, Skyguy," she retaliated, indicating the pouch slung over her chest. She reached in and pulled out a concussion grenade, designed specifically to cripple vehicles. "Where should we put them?"

Anakin furrowed his brow, surveying the AT-ATs from underneath. Every square millimeter of the hull was covered in thick plates of armor that a concussion grenade would barely dent. He raked his gaze over one of the machines, searching for any weakness.

And then he found it.

Those incredibly tall legs that gave the AT-AT its vaunted height and adaptability to terrain were also its greatest combat deficit. There was only so much armor the designers could slap on before it began to compromise the machine's already limited dexterity, and it was for that reason that the walker's knee joints were left relatively bare.

"On the knees," he said with finality. "Their armor is weak there."

"Sounds like a plan."

The knees of the AT-ATs were still easily ten meters above the ground, which would have proved quite the obstacle for any normal strike team.

For a Jedi, however, a mere jump brought them to the perfect level. The concussion grenades were magnetic in nature, and so it was relatively simple to attach them to the vulnerable knee joints of the walkers.

It would have been relatively simple, at least, if just after Anakin had finished sabotaging his second walker, Ahsoka hadn't urgently hissed over their comlink, "Stormies coming in!"

Being ten meters in the air hanging off of a large piece of steel at the time, Anakin's potential hiding places were, suffice to say, limited. Uttering a curse that Obi-Wan would have boxed his ears for, he desperately scrabbled for a handhold as he attempted to swing himself around so that the walker's massive leg would block him from view.

Unfortunately, he was only able to make it halfway around before his left hand slipped on the smooth metal plating, leaving him dangling by one arm, half-in, half-out of cover.

It would have to be good enough. With the aid of his NODs, he could see a half-dozen stormtroopers jogging towards the base of the walkers. Any more movement would attract their attention. And besides, it was amazing how often people failed to look up when searching for someone.

_Please just be a patrol,_ Anakin thought, unaware of who, exactly, he was petitioning. _Please don't be a relief force, please don't be a relief force…_

"Sergeant Jax! Your men stand relieved."

_Kriff._

The leader of the patrol took a step forward when there was no response, and Anakin winced. If he walked any further, there was no doubt he would find the bodies. The two Jedi hadn't possessed sufficient time to properly hide the corpses, a fact Anakin was currently regretting.

"Sergeant Jax? What, sleeping on the job again?" the sergeant continued his search, walking around the first AT-AT. "There's a sabacc game going on in the barracks, I thought you might want to join in…" the roving sergeant let the invitation hang, stopping his movement.

Directly underneath Anakin's hiding place.

_Kriff_, Anakin thought again, wincing as his shoulder began to burn from the strain of holding up his entire body. He grimaced and shifted forward, fingers scrabbling against the smooth metal for a better grip on the knee joint.

And as he did so, his index finger rammed up against the unyielding metal of the joint, jamming it back into the socket. Anakin's eyes bugged out of their sockets at the sudden pain, and he frantically bit his tongue in an attempt to keep his mouth shut, but he could not fully stop the strangled growl of pain and anger that was his instinctive reaction to the injury.

Anakin bit his tongue, bringing his dangling left hand up to clap it over his mouth. _Please, don't have heard that, _he implored the trooper.

"Jax? Was that you?" the sergeant asked. "You stub your toe or something?"

_In a manner of speaking…_

"Jax? Come on; this is getting kind of tiring."

_Just don't look up just don't look up don't look up don't look up don't look up-_

"Jax? Is that you? Please don't tell me you decided to climb the walker and got stuck again-_oof!_"

The sergeant's comment was cut off as Anakin released his grip on the joint, plummeting down with his foot leading the way. His boot impacted squarely in the center of the stormtrooper's back, sending a jarring pain up Anakin's leg but sending the sergeant sprawling to the ground.

The sergeant sputtered in shock, rolling over and scrambling for his blaster rifle as he searched for his attacker.

The _snap-hiss_ of an igniting lightsaber and a blinding blue light were the last sensory inputs he ever received.

"Ahsoka!" Anakin barked as he spun his lightsaber, furiously deflecting the bolts of the remaining stormtroopers. "Finish the job! I'll hold them off!"

"Got it!" she replied, but the rest of her response was lost in meaningless jabber as Anakin focused his entire concentration on the fight in front of him.

His brow furrowed in concentration as he twirled his lightsaber into a shield of sapphire light, anticipating the angles of the lasers with the Force and adjusting accordingly.

Two stormtroopers went down, their own bolts deflected back into their torsos. Anakin furrowed his brows in tight focus, and another pair joined their comrades just as quickly.

Anakin looked around for the final combatant, and spotted him a moment later, sprinting pell-mell away from the walkers and towards the rest of the motor pool. No doubt his friends had just been buying time for his escape to warn the rest of the base.

That was unacceptable.

The stormtrooper was at least twenty meters away, and departing further every second. The dead troopers' blasters littered the ground, but Anakin avoided using the clumsy things whenever he could.

Instead, he got a solid estimate of the trooper's speed, weighed it against his current angle, and then curled his arm inwards. Making one final adjustment with the Force, he snapped it open again with incredible force, letting his fingers fall loose around the handle of his lightsaber as it spun away at mind-numbing speeds towards the unfortunate trooper.

000

Specialist Akim Bilhm was a mechanic.

A repulsor tank mechanic, if one wanted to be specific. In the grand army of the Empire, with its uncountable hordes of men and munitions, he was tasked with the upkeep and preservation of its newest and shiniest lumps of metal. While row upon row of stormtroopers marched by their towards the fight, he sweated and worked in the sweltering, cramped conditions of the tanks' interiors. When they drilled in their polished, ivory armor, he emerged from the innards of a vehicle with overalls smeared with grease and hands grubby with dirt.

And that suited him just fine. It was a job he was damn good at.

"Eppy, try it now," he ordered, floating his hovertable out from underneath the tank his crew was currently working on and rubbing his hands on a nearby cloth rag.

In the cabin of the tank, Epston Kani, commonly known as Eppy to the rest of the crew, obliged, fiddling with a set of controls in front of him. The tank whirred as it began the startup cycle, and for a moment Akim dared to hope.

And then the tank's mighty repulsorlift drive failed spectacularly, sputtering and dying with a choking sound that made Akim want to cry.

"Sorry, boss," Epston said. "Not my fault."

"I know, Eppy, I know," Akim sighed, resisting the urge to curl up his fist and smash it into the side of the tank. The 2-M Saber, fresh off the production lines as a replacement for the TX-130 figher tank that had been the staple of the Republic ground forces. The Saber had been touted by the logistics personnel as the latest and greatest wonder in the long, dignified line of repulsor fighter-tanks. And it certainly looked the part; with its sleek lines and neat front prongs, it could have passed for a luxury speeder, were it not for its massive top-mounted laser turret, the two forward facing laser cannons, and the dual missile launchers.

Impressive on paper. But as Akim and the rest of the Imperial ground support crew quickly found out, the 2-M was not all that it had been cracked up to be. Specifically, it was about as mechanically reliable as a six-year-old's home-built Podracer, a fact that had caused its reputation to quickly drop to near zero among the mechanical world. No matter how deadly or intimidating it might be on the battlefield, a tank could only work if it _worked_.

This particular 2-M had been plaguing Akim's crew for the past two days, holding up their quota because of its stubborn refusal to stay running for more than thirty seconds at a time. It was to the point where Akim was seriously considering how the thing might look as target practice for those new AT-ATs.

Rubbing his forehead, he called up, "So, what does it look like up there?"

"I'm getting negative readings on both inertial dampeners for the repulsor block," Epston called back. "And a 'check power line' warning from the engine circuit breaker."

"Oh, for the Core's sake," Akim groaned. "Partam! You were supposed to check the power lines before you closed the circuit!"

"I did," Partam Ocstrel, the crew's third and final member, called back indignantly. "It was perfectly fine the last time I looked; I don't know what you _kalios _did to it, but _opereano lamina erava-_"

"Yeah, yeah, your mother's a Sarlacc too, or whatever," Akim replied as Partam began to lapse back into his native Abregaden dialect, an annoying habit the man had yet to shake. "I don't know many times I have to tell you that we speak Basic here. Eppy; did you get a reading on the flux capacitors?"

"Portside one's doing fine, sir," Epston responded, "but the starboard unit's deader than my aunt's pet womp rat."

"Charming," Akim sighed, glancing down at his chronometer.

_Kriff_. It was almost four in the morning. They had been working on this rig for nearly five straight hours, and the damned thing was still refusing to cooperate. If they didn't get it operational by tomorrow morning, there would be hell to pay with the senior LOGCOM personnel.

A flicker of movement caught his eye as he was preparing to dive back into the innards of the tank once again, and he looked up to see Liram Arrmal approaching. Liram was a tanker, the commander of this specific vehicle. In the short time the two men had been able to get acquainted, Akim had found the man to be of superior quality, with a respect for the hardworking mechanics that most soldiers lacked.

Yet another reason why this job was irking him so.

"Alright guys," he called, taking a swig of water from a canteen and using the remainder of it to scrub the grime off of his face. "Five minute break. Hit the 'fresher, grab a snack, whatever it is that makes you human, and get back here."

With shouts of gratitude, Epston and Partam slid off of the troublesome vehicle, dashing off towards their respective destinations as Akim turned to face Liram.

"How goes the battle?" Liram asked as he approached, a smile creasing the edges of his lined face.

"Terrible," Akim responded honestly, wiping his hands on a rag and then reaching to towel off his head. "These 2-Ms look all nice and pretty from the outside, but as soon as you pop the access panel and look inside, _bam!_ Mechanical hell."

"That bad, huh?" Liram asked, the smile fading. "I suppose that means it won't be reading for combat tomorrow?"

"I'd rank that right next to 'Hutts growing wings' on the probability list, yeah," Akim confirmed, spitting on his hands and rubbing them together to remove the stains. "The repulsor block is-"

"Alert! Alert! Intruders on the base, in the motorpool, sound the alert!"

Akim and Liram both whirled around at the sudden interruption to find a stormtrooper in full armor running towards them from the direction of the AT-ATs, waving his arms frantically to get their attention.

"Now hold on, soldier," Liram said, stepping forward to confront the man as he neared. "What did you say?"

The stormtrooper had closed the distance to thirty meters when Akim thought he saw a flash of blue over the white-armored man's shoulder. Frowning, he stood on his tiptoes to get a better look.

And then a swirling bar of sapphire light came streaking out of the darkness, slicing through the stormtrooper's torso like a knife through butter. The two halves of the bisected trooper fell to the ground, his insides a glowing mass of cauterized flesh and organs.

Akim turned around and vomited.

000

Anakin allowed himself a flush grin of victory as his eyes beheld the fleeing trooper cut down by his impeccable aim. Aided by the Force, his lightsaber came flying back to his outstretched hand, settling into his palm.

A grin that was quickly wiped off of his face as the base's sirens came to life with a keening wail. Searchlights everywhere flashed over to the walkers, leaving Anakin standing in the midst of a circle of dazzling light. Shading his eyes against the sudden visual onslaught, he beheld the motor pool swarming like an upset hornets' nest, men running back and forth as confused cries floated into the night sky.

"Oh, dear," Anakin said.

And then stormtroopers began to pour into the motor pool from every which way, a white-armored tide preparing to crush the infiltrators.

"Um, Snips?" he said quietly. "We have to go. Like, now."

"Hold on," she said. "I've got one left!"

"Seven out of eight'll have to be good enough!" Anakin barked. "We have to go _now!_"

Had it been anyone else, Ahsoka would have insisted that they stay and finish the job. But after several years working with Anakin, she knew him well enough to understand that the tone in his voice would brook no argument. She slid the last concussion charge into place on the seventh walker's back left leg, and then dropped to the ground, dashing to her Master's aid.

She found him already embattled, weaving a sapphire web with his lightsaber as stormtroopers poured onto the grounds of the motor pool, assuming positions behind cover as they rained lasers down on the frantic Jedi Knight.

Ahsoka sprang to her Master's aid, igniting her own emerald blade and adding it to the fray. With her help, the amount of incoming fire slackened somewhat, and Anakin used the opportunity to hurl his lightsaber at an approaching troop transport. The sapphire blade sliced through the troop bay, turning any troopers inside into mincemeat as the transport crashed to the ground.

"Let's go, let's go!" Anakin barked, rolling forward and catching his blade as it returned to him just in time to neatly behead a charging stormtrooper.

"Did you hit the panic button?" Ahsoka yelled to be heard over the sound of the fray, falling in behind Anakin and flourishing her emerald lightsaber to keep their backs protected.

"Of course!" Anakin growled, sprinting forwards through the hail of crimson laserfire. "They said that if we can get out of the base, that they can cover our retreat!"

"How?" Ahsoka asked, her words clipped as she struggled to maintain the concentration required to deflect the multitude of incoming blaster bolts. With a gesture of her hand, she brought a repair crane tumbling down, smashing a formation of stormtroopers beneath its bulk.

"I didn't exactly have the time to ask!" Anakin responded, his last words morphing into a growl as he disemboweled an unfortunate trooper. "Just trigger the charges! That ought to delay them for a little while."

"Roger," Ahsoka said, pulling the remote detonator from her belt. Anakin stepped in front of her, momentarily assuming a larger share of the defense burden in order to give her time.

Ahsoka savored the moment for a split-second before punching the red button.

Immediately, gouts of flame erupted at the knee joints of seven of the eight walkers, the sudden explosions deafeningly loud. With the groans and screeches of tearing metal, the AT-ATs began to fall, pitching into the ground with earth-shattering collisions and tearing massive furrows into the fields.

For a moment, the firing slackened as the Imperials came to grips with the fact that nearly all of their most powerful vehicles had been destroyed. Ahsoka would have smiled, but she knew that now their rage would only be intensified.

"Come on, Snips!" Anakin yelled, and Ahsoka found him sprinting towards a row of 74-Z speeder bikes. He jumped onto one, starting it up immediately, and Ahsoka followed suit.

The 74-Z was a newer model of speeder bike, Ahsoka recalled as she started it up. With a maximum altitude of ten meters and their aerodynamic design, they were incredibly fast and maneuverable.

Which was a good thing, because they carried only a single light blaster cannon for armament. Intended for scouting and reconnaissance, speed would be the rider's sole defense if they were caught in a scrap.

That suited Ahsoka fine. There was no way she wanted to be caught up in a duel with who-knew-how-many thousands of Imperials.

Apparently Anakin agreed, because his speeder suddenly took off as if all the demons of the seven Corellian Hells were on his heels. Swearing, Ahsoka kicked the accelerator pedal and yelped with surprise as her bike leapt forwards.

Within seconds she had reached over a hundred kilometers per standard hour, and she gripped the handlebars with white knuckles as her eyes strained to pick out Anakin's bike ahead of her. All of the lasers and explosions around her faded away, dull and muted, as she kept her gaze on her Master, who was weaving in and out of the vehicles in the motor pool as if he had been doing this his entire life.

Ahsoka nearly clipped her speeder's forked tip on the edge of a repulsor tank as she rounded a corner, which at her speed, would have been the end of her. Swallowing, she was surprised to see that they were nearing the final stretch to the motorpool gate.

And it was closing.

"Faster!" she heard Anakin yell in her comlink, but the rest of his words were cut off by the deafening wind as she leaned over the controls, pushing the bike's repulsors to their limit. Vehicles, men, crates, all faded into one indistinguishable blur as she raced across the ground, the only thing that stood out in any clarity being the gate that was tauntingly drawing closer and closer shut.

Anakin fired his bike's cannon, blowing gaping holes in the armor of two stormtroopers who were attempting to set up a barrier in front of the gate before it closed. They fell to the ground, but the gate continued its inexorable march.

Up ahead, Anakin rolled his bike sideways in an attempt to make a thinner profile. Ahsoka copied him, and soon she was skimming along at speeds she didn't even want to think about, her head a scant half-meter off the ground.

The crack between the bottom of the gate and the ground was ever decreasing, taking their last chance at freedom with it.

The distance closed to fifty meters, and the gate was still closing. Thirty meters, and Ahsoka began to cringe, anticipating the seemingly-inevitable impact and fireball to come.

Twenty meters. Ahsoka shrunk herself down as much as possible, and if the strength of one's grip determined speed, she would have broken the sound barrier.

Ten meters. Ahsoka dipped as close as she dared to the ground without sangging one of the front vanes and squeezed her eyes shut tight as the now nearly-imperceptible gap loomed.

And then they were free, the gate thudding shut behind them. Ahsoka opened her eyes.

Just in time to realize that she was about to ram straight into a cargo tram that was crawling through the intersection in front of her. She jerked back on the handlebars, and the speeder reciprocated, missing a fiery death my mere centimeters.

Ahead, she heard a raw-throated yell of adrenaline from Anakin, and reciprocated with a cry of her own. She evened out her position and altitude, latching onto her Master's tail as they streaked through the base.

Now, however, there was no need for stealth. The two Jedi screamed through the streets, zooming around corners and through barracks grounds. Imperials swarmed everywhere, white-armored stormtroopers and support personnel alike as vehicles rumbled after them and the sirens continued to blare.

They may as well have been chasing the wind. The Jedi flashed through the base at incredible speed, making use of their laser cannons whenever they could to sow even more chaos and destruction among the Imperial ranks.

Ahsoka squeezed the firing lever, a feral grin creasing her face as the bolts cut down a group of troopers. She continued firing, melting the support beams of a floodlight apparatus and causing it to come crashing down behind them, delaying any pursuing forces.

In a matter of minutes, the Jedi rounded a corner to find themselves with a home-run shot at the main gate, and beyond, freedom.

One problem: the gate was currently closed, and its entrance guarded by a platoon's worth of stormtroopers and half a dozen light tanks.

Ahsoka swore as a bolt from a laser cannon struck the ground near her, sending her bike into a dizzying roll. She wrenched the controls, barely managing to pull out in time to avoid smashing into the ground.

The air was filled with scarlet lasers streaking around her; if the beams had been substantial and not energized plasma, Ahsoka felt fairly certain she could have walked to the gate on them.

Anakin, however, merely kept speeding straight ahead, as if he had no idea that there was a whole platoon and several tons of durasteel blocking their way.

"What are we doing?" She screamed into the comlink to make herself heard, juking to the side to avoid a bolt that very nearly took her head off.

"Podracing!" he responded.

Ahsoka's mouth fell open. "What?"

"Just follow me!" he yelled back.

"Oh, I'm going to regret this," she muttered, but stayed dutifully on her Master's tail.

Anakin was charging directly at one of the tanks, one of the newer models with the sloped fronts. Ahsoka followed, jerking the bike from side to side in an attempt to avoid the deadly laser bolts it was spitting out like they were going out of style. She was about to ask what, exactly, Anakin was hoping to accomplish by ramming a speeder bike into a vehicle ten times its size, when she saw his plan.

It was crazy. Stupid, even. But, knowing him, it would probably work. She pulled up alongside him, and he gave her a brief nod. She returned it, signifying that she knew what was happening.

The tank had stopped firing, either because it had depleted its current battery or because its commander had figured that if the two idiots were going to ram into it, then there was no point in wasting energy.

What they didn't take into account was the repulsor fields of the speeder bikes.

Her mouth dry with terror, Ahsoka dropped the front field down to nearly zero. As soon as the front steering vanes were about to smash into the metal of the tank, she cranked them back up to one hundred percent.

The speeder bike rode up and over the tank as if it wasn't even there. Forty tons of durasteel was converted into a gigantic ramp that launched her skywards, up and over the perimeter wall as lasers streaked into the night sky around her.

And as tantalizing as that taste of freedom was, the repuslor fields on the bikes had a maximum range of ten meters. Currently, the two Jedi were soaring through the air at forty.

Ahsoka swallowed as her bike began to plummet, cranking the fields up to their max and bracing herself for a hard landing.

With a jarring impact, the bike hit, its repulsor fields pushing it up and away even as gravity was pulling it down. Ahsoka fought not to scream as the bike skipped across the field for nearly a kilometer, each touchdown decreasing its momentum somewhat.

Finally, the bike lost enough inertia so that she could stabilize it again. She looked around for Anakin, and saw him speeding through the fields in front of her and to the right.

She laughed. She couldn't help it, the sound ripping from her lungs as a natural consequence of escaping from a major Imperial base nearly unscathed. All those Imperials, all that firepower, had been useless to stop them. It was quite the liberating feeling.

Finally, she calmed down, pulling up alongside Anakin. The fields were whipping by now at a steady rate, and they had a straight shot to Emerald Haven.

Of course, nothing ever went that simple.

A hail of red lasers streaked by narrowly overhead, and Ahsoka ducked down in reflex. Glancing behind her, she groaned at the sight.

Five speeder bikes, identical to theirs, except piloted by scout troopers, swept across the plains in a wedge formation, ruby lasers spitting from their laser cannons.

And they finally achieved a hit.

A burst of lasers made contact with Anakin's steering vanes, shearing them off like paper.

"Master!" Ahsoka cried in panic as Anakin's bike spun out of control, whirling around like a dervish as it plummeted to the ground. She felt her gut wrench as it vanished from view behind a large hillock, knowing that even a pilot as skilled as Anakin could not arrest a crash of that magnitude.

Frantically, Ahsoka cast about with the Force, searching for Anakin's presence. She heaved a sigh of relief as she found it; he was alive. Injured, by the tone of his emotions, but alive.

Her relief was cut off as two of the scout troopers turned, sweeping towards the hillock to confirm their kill.

She attempted to vector towards him, but the other three scouts swept towards her, firing a steady stream of bolts that kept tracking closer and closer to their mark. Gritting her teeth in anger, she punched the accelerator for all it was worth, heading off at right angles to them while simultaneously taking note of a large rock outcropping up ahead.

Squeezing every last possible ounce of speed possible out of the machine, she whipped behind the outcropping. Utilizing that brief moment in which the Imperials would have lost visual contact with her, she spun her bike around and jammed the accelerator forward, screaming out the exact same way she had gone in.

The Imperials were obviously surprised, having expected her to loop around the outcropping, and one of them was separated from the other two. With a vicious grin, she caught the pair that was together in her sights and squeezed the trigger, raking the two bikes with lasers as she sped past. Two explosions sounded, and she looked over her shoulder to see plumes of smoking rising from twin piles of wreckage smeared over the plains.

Her victory was short-lived, however, as the remaining trooper latched onto her tail. She juked from side to side, her maneuvers growing more frantic as every burst came closer to its mark. A quick loop-the-loop threw him off for a while, but he was obviously a skilled pilot, as he had regained his superior position in seconds.

Just as she was about to consider the pros and cons of jumping off of a moving speeder, Anakin's voice crackled across her ear. "Snips! Draw him over the hill!"

Ahsoka didn't even bother to question. "Understood," she said, vectoring her speeder towards the hillock Anakin had crashed behind.

Just as she was about to crest the hill, one of the scout trooper's lasers made contact with the back of her bike. Ahsoka gasped as the handlebars were driven into her stomach as the bike lurched forwards, and then plummeted, its repulsor fields knocked out. The steering vanes snagged the ground, and Ahsoka leapt out of the seat.

The wind was driven out of her as she hit the ground on the downslope of the hillock, her bike flipping end over end in a spectacular crash. Dimly, she saw the scout trooper come zooming over the crest, and then saw Anakin rise up from his hiding place with lightsaber in hand and slice the steering vanes clean off.

Ahsoka ducked as the spinning bike went sailing overhead, the trooper's cry of panic drowned out by a sickening crash as the speeder slammed into the ground, tearing itself apart in a massive furrow.

Ahsoka blinked, her head throbbing as if it had been cracked with a blaster. Her vision blurred around the edges, and her blood pounded in her ears.

"Ahsoka?"

The voice was distant, indistinct, like someone murmuring in her ear. She frowned, trying to sit up.

"Ahsoka? Are you alright?" The voice was closer this time, and a large shape loomed over her vision.

A hand suddenly clasped her own, and she found herself being hauled upwards.

"Ahsoka Tano. Are you alright?"

Everything zoomed back into perspective, as if someone had thrown a switch. Ahsoka shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Yeah," she said. "Considering I just fell of a speeder bike."

Anakin clapped her on the back. "That's the Snips I know," he said with a smile.

A smile that quickly faded as he put weight on his left leg. He grimaced and staggered, trying to maintain his balance. Alarmed, Ahsoka leaped to his side and gave him an arm to lean on, which he gratefully accepted.

"Are_ you _alright?" Ahsoka asked concernedly.

Anakin tried to smile, but it devolved into a grimace again as he stepped back from her and gingerly tested his strength again. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

When Ahsoka didn't answer, he winced and continued. "I twisted my ankle in the crash. Either that or when I fought them," he said, gesturing to the dismembered bodies of the two scouts that had attempted to confirm his death.

"We'll have to get that looked at," Ahsoka said comfortingly. "Did you call for extraction?"

"Yeah," Anakin said tiredly, dropping down on the hill. "The COMs were a mess. All I got was that 'support was on the way'."

"Well," Ahsoka said, "I suppose that's better than-"

_Thump._

Anakin frowned as the earth below them trembled. "What was that?"

"Earthquake?" Ahsoka suggested hopefully.

"That was no earthquake," Anakin said direly. "It almost sounded like-"

_Thump._

The earth trembled again.

_Thump…thump…thump…_

"Oh, no," Ahsoka whispered. Anakin wordlessly laid down and began to crawl back up to the crest of the hill, moving his injured ankle as little as possible. Ahsoka joined him, and the two Jedi made the agonizing ascent. The earth-shaking thuds seemed to be growing greater as they moved, and when they finally crested the hill, they saw the cause.

The final AT-AT walker.

It was striding across the plain like some ancient juggernaut, every impact of its massive footfalls shaking the ground as its head scanned from side to side for targets. At its feet, like servants attending their king, swarmed a multitude of repulsor tanks, arranged in a loose wedge in front.

"I _knew_ I should have laid the charges on that final walker," Ahsoka rued.

"Too late now," Anakin said. "Get down!" He placed a hand on her neck, pulling her back down beneath the crest of the ridge.

"So…what now?" Ahsoka asked.

"Now, we wait," Anakin said tiredly, rolling over on his back.

"What?" Ahsoka hissed. "Are you serious? They'll roll right over us!"

"And how, exactly, do you propose to stop them?" Anakin asked, propping himself up one elbow.

"I'll…I'll…" Ahsoka cast about frantically for some idea. "I'll distract them while you get away. I'll pretend to surrender and then you can escape and-"

"No!" Anakin barked with surprising force, cutting her off. "I'm crippled; I'll have no chance of making it. You'll go, and I'll hold them off."

"I am _not_ leaving you here, Master," Ahsoka said with finality, and he met her gaze for a moment before sighing.

"Then we're right back to square one," he said. "We wait. The UNSC says they have support on the way, we lay low until it gets here. No risk, nothing stupid, just waiting. Got it?"

"You sound just like Obi-Wan."

Anakin smiled, but it quickly turned into a grimace as his ankle flared with pain again. He poked his head back up over the ridge, and Ahsoka did so as well.

The Imperials were getting closer.

"Hopefully they'll think we died in the crash," Ahsoka said, sliding back down as the earth-shaking thuds began to grow in frequency and volume.

Anakin didn't respond. Confused, Ahsoka turned around to find him fiddling with his COM gear.

"Command?" he asked. "UNSC Command?"

There was a buzz of static, and then a voice came back. "This is UNSC CENTCOM, 8th Corps HQ. Identify yourself."

"This is Juliet September Tango," Anakin said, frowning as he worked his tongue around the unfamiliar words that had been given to them for their callsign. "We are on foot and wounded. Imperial forces are closing in with heavy armor support; repeat, _heavy armor support._ Request extraction on the double, over."

There was a blur of voices, then, "Support is on the way."

"Damnit!" Anakin barked, and Ahsoka blinked at her Master's sudden loss of temper. "I don't want support, I want extraction! There's nothing you've got that could take down this much armor-"

"Look up," came the reply.

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" Anakin asked.

Static.

"Hello? Command, do you copy?" Anakin said, adjusting the frequency on his COM.

He sighed, leaning back against the hill as the thuds of the AT-AT drew closer. "Looks like the line cut again. Just our luck. Now, we'll have to…"

Anakin's voice trailed off as he became aware of a new sound. It was a dull, base roar, deep and powerful yet at the same time so distant that it seemed to have been present the whole time, only just now manifesting itself.

"What the-?" he frowned, looking back up over the hill at the approaching Imperials. Aside from the steady thumps of the AT-AT, there was nothing among their ranks that seemed capable of producing such a noise.

"Ahsoka, do you see what-?" he began.

"I do believe they said to look up," she replied, and Anakin realized that his apprentice had been staring up at the sky this whole time.

"Wha…?" Anakin began as he rolled onto his back and began to scan the night sky. "What? I don't see-oh."

"Oh, indeed," Ahsoka responded, her voice surprisingly calm.

Blazing its way across the onyx sky was a fiery object, burning bright with the fires of reentry as a trail of burnished orange stretched behind it, parting the darkness with its brilliance. Anakin shaded his eyes, staring up at it, and the bass roar grew even louder as the object appeared to be plummeting straight towards them.

Anakin's eyes widened. "Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. This is not good. We have to go!" he said, grabbing at Ahsoka's arm and scrambling upright, ignoring the pain from his injured ankle. "Ahsoka! Come on! We have to go now! That comet's going to incinerate this whole area!"

"Who says it's a comet?" Ahsoka said, sitting back down.

"What?" Anakin asked, stunned. "What else could it be? Now come on, we have to go-"

"An exoatmospheric entry pod of some time?" she interrupted. "Some sort of space-to-ground direct transport system? I find it hard to believe that them saying, 'Look up', and this object are some kind of coincidence."

"And what if it is?" Anakin challenged. "We'll be crisped."

"Just the same as we'll be crisped by the Imperials if we try to run," Ahsoka pointed out with a calm tone. "As you yourself pointed out. How far could you make it on that ankle?"

Anakin winced at the harsh truth behind her words and tested his weight. He immediately regretted it as a fresh lance of pain traveled up his leg, but he ignored it. "At least we can try," he said.

"I'll take my chances with the thing that might kill me as opposed to the thing that will, thank you very much," Ahsoka replied. "Besides, it is rather pretty to watch."

Anakin let out a huff of disbelief, but another thud reminded him that he was standing up, making himself a prime target should the AT-AT notice them. He sat down heavily, ignoring the pain from his ankle.

And he realized that Ahsoka was right. If this blazing comet contained their salvation, it was worth the wait.

And, it was rather pretty.

The comet descended through the atmosphere at an incredible rate, falling at incomprehensible speeds as it burned brilliant. Whatever kind of craft it was must have extreme reentry shielding, or very thick hulls, to survive such a drop.

As the comet descended, even the Imperials seemed to take notice, the steady thud of the AT-AT faltering as they beheld the strange phenomena. The deep roar seemed to grow even louder, thrumming through every fiber of the Jedis' beings as they watched the comet fall.

It seemed to fall at exponential speeds as it got closer, the roar growing with it. Anakin swallowed, wondering if staying behind had in fact been the right idea. If this was some sort of comet or asteroid, this entire area would be nothing but a big crater.

The object was huge in the sky overhead now, its orange trail slashing a brutal tear across the blackness and nearly blinding anyone who looked at it as it roared overhead towards a stretch of plain some thousand meters distant. It passed over the hillock Anakin and Ahoksa were sheltered behind in the blink of an eye, and the roar that accompanied it grew so loud that it shook Anakin's very bones, his teeth chattering together from the strength of the awesome vibrations that rose like a crescendo to announce the object's entrance.

And then, with a resounding _crunch _that shamed any earth-shattering done by the AT-AT and was certain to be audible for miles around, the object impacted the ground. Anakin sealed his eyes shut tight as the incredible sound nearly deafened him. A storm of dust and debris expanded outwards from the epicenter of the impact, pelting the two Jedi with bits of rock and other such annoyances.

The pelting of debris ceased, and Anakin cautiously opened his eyes.

What he saw was a sight that would stick with him for the rest of his life.

Where the ruins of the comet should have been, instead some _thing _was rising from the ground, a massive black silhouette obscured by clouds of dust. Anakin was dimly able to make out a titanic, squat body, with large appendages extending outwards.

The dust slowly settled.

Anakin's breath hitched as he beheld their 'support'.

The battle walker was at least fifty meters high, covered in a chitinous, purple-blue armor plating that pulsed with thousands of thin lines. Four jointed legs extended from the body, ending in massive claw-like appendages that dug into the ground as it began to move. On top of the squat, sloped body rested a massive turret, and on the nose of the behemoth was a series of glowing lights that seemed to radiate unstoppable strength.

The walker began to move, its massive legs rising and stabbing at the ground with a whir of alien technology. The machine's entire aura seemed to be one of invincibility.

"Is that our support?" Ahsoka asked, her tone awed.

"I hope so," Anakin replied truthfully, and he was suddenly struck with the urge to see this thing in action. Against his better judgment, he began to crawl to the top of the hill.

"What are you doing?" Ahsoka hissed.

"Having fun," he answered.

There was a groan in response, but within seconds she was right alongside him.

Anakin looked cautiously over the edge of the hill. The Imperial task force, led by the AT-AT, had halted in their tracks, staring at the newcomer as they tried to determine whether it was friend or foe.

It answered that question for them.

The machine seemed to brace itself, lowering its body and digging its legs into the earth as its nose began to glow with light. The spot of power grew and grew, becoming brighter and brighter until it seemed to be a new sun. The Imperials interpreted that as an act of aggression, the smaller tanks scattering as the AT-AT prepared to unleash all of its destructive firepower on this new player.

The newcomer fired first.

A brilliant emerald beam sprang into existence, shooting out from the walker's prow as it held itself steady. The beam smashed into the AT-AT, melting through the nearly-impenetrable durasteel armor like paper.

The beam faded, and Anakin's breath caught in its throat.

The AT-AT, most feared battle machine of the Imperial army and with a reputation of being nearly invulnerable, had been gutted from stem to stern. The command cabin was gone, replaced instead by a gigantic, blackened hole.

With a thundering crash, the headless, charred AT-AT pitched to the ground, as if kneeling to its better.

The rest of the Imperial tanks opened up, but the red lasers seemed to have no effect. The strange, chitinous battle plating absorbed the firepower as if it were mere spitwads.

The turret mounted on top of the new battle walker then opened up, tracking the Imperial tanks and spitting out bolts of burning plasma. A 2-M repulsor tank was caught by one of the blasts, and when the light from the explosion faded, all that remained was a blackened crater scattered with wreckage.

"Master, look!" Ahsoka said, pointing behind them, and Anakin turned to see a Pelican dropship flying towards them. He grinned; never before had a ship with thrust-vector technology looked so welcoming.

Anakin turned back to the battlefield, hoping one of the Imperials didn't take a shot at the Pelican. That new walker seemed to have things in hand, but one good shot could still bring down the dropship.

And then a new voice broke across the COMs. It was deep and rich, unmistakably dangerous yet underlaid with a foundation of intelligence.

"Go, humans," it said. "_We_ will deal with the Imperials."

_**That**_** was well and truly satisfying.  
>Anyways, sorry if the part with the mechanic seemed to drag on; I intended for it to be a lot shorter, but then it just kind of wrote itself. Besides, the logistical and support personnel really are the unsung heroes behind any military op.<strong>

**Alright; off to go write some more :P**


	18. I'll Just Take This Off Your Hands

Chapter IIXX

**I LIVE.**

**Despite the best efforts of school, cross-country running, and just life in general, I finally managed to get some time to write and scrape this chapter together. I am extremely sorry I took so long; believe me, it was as painful for me as it was for any of you. I doubt there will be any more month-long hiatuses in the future, but I can't promise anything.**

**Anyways, enough about me. Please, enjoy :)**

Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

_Subjugator_-class cruiser _Malice_

0558 hours, March 31st, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)

The clatter of Matthias's rifle hitting the floor of the railjet tunnel seemed unnaturally loud amongst the stillness.

The Spartan-IV hit the ground rolling, taking away the momentum of the blow dealt to him by the new hostile. He came up in a half-crouch position, ready to spring or roll away again at a moment's notice as his hand swept down to his thigh and retrieved his magnum sidearm, slipping off the safety and chambering the first round in one smooth motion. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts as his shield bar flashed warnings and his suit's alarms pulsed insistently, he immediately re-assessed the situation.

Laura was behind him, embroiled in a struggle with several more of the unknown attackers, the staccato flashes of her rifle illuminating the tunnel. Matthias's motion tracker was awash with red; swiveling his head, he managed to pick out at least three more of the robotic hostiles coming in his direction.

They were humanoid in shape, with eerie red eye sockets that he suspected were designed more for psychological effect than practicality. They all appeared to be armed with sword-like attachments on their right arms, and rectangular shields on their left. Their underlying cables and wiring were all covered in grey armor.

And they were _fast_. Not quite as fast as himself, he guessed, but their non-organic nature meant they would never suffer fatigue, and their reaction times would remain as fast as ever.

Matthias drew a bead on one of them that was sprinting towards him from down the tunnel and started squeezing off shots one after the other. The massive 12.7mm rounds slammed into the droid's torso plating, exploding with showers of sparks. The machine jerked and faltered slightly with each hit it suffered, but Matthias kept firing until his magazine clicked empty.

Amazingly, the thing kept coming. A quick investigation showed that an entire magazine of the vaunted SAPHE rounds had barely even dented the droid's chest-plate, accomplishing as little as some scorch marks and a bit of smoke trailing in the machine's wake.

That changed the game significantly.

Confronted with the ineffectiveness of his firearms and the nature of his enemies' armaments, Matthias knew that this was going to turn into a close-quarters battle.

That was fine with him. As a Spartan, he was versed in every martial art developed since the dawn of recorded history, as well as in SCCP. Otherwise known as the Spartan Close-Combatives Program, it was a system of holds, moves, throws, and other CQC maneuvers designed specifically with Spartan strength and speed in mind.

Knowing that his combat knife would do little good for him here, Matthias left the weapon stowed in its sheath and got down low, preparing to meet the charge of the first droid.

These first few seconds of the melee, when the robot was unaware of its opponent's speed and strength, would be the most critical. If Matthias could disable or destroy it quickly enough, he could move on to its companions and even the odds significantly.

The machine came bounding in towards him at a disconcerting speed, holding its shield up to block any blows aimed at its torso and head area while it simultaneously held its sword-arm forward, ready to spear Matthias through the middle.

Matthias, however, had no intentions of allowing that to happen. Taking note of where the machine's companions were, the Spartan-IV waited until the droid was almost on top of him.

As soon as the droid's arm began to thrust forwards for the killing blow, Matthias's genetically-enhanced vision picked up the nearly imperceptible movement. Within milliseconds, the famed Spartan-IV reaction time had kicked in. A powerful surge of his legs, amplified by the force-multiplying circuits in the MJOLNIR armor, sent Matthias into a blindingly-fast roll, ducking underneath the swinging blade and coming up directly behind his robotic opponent. The robot began to turn.

Matthias lashed out, his armor-encased foot smashing into the droid's back in a blow that could shatter duracrete. The machine was thrown forward, smashing into the ground with a sizeable dent in its back.

Before Matthias could finish the job, however, his motion tracker informed him of two more of the machines closing on him from opposite sides. One came charging in from his right, swinging its vibrosword at superhuman speeds.

Against any normal opponent, that blow likely would have decapitated them. For a Spartan in full CQC mode, however, the swing appeared to be moving as slowly as a glacier.

Lacking any means to dodge _around _the blade because of the other droid moving in from his opposite side, Matthias did the next best thing.

Dropping low, he slipped under the robot's swing and shoulder-checked the machine at the waist, flipping the droid over his shoulder and sending it crashing to the ground. Without missing a beat, he turned and took a leap, hurtling over his victim to confront the third droid.

This one, however, had seen what happened to its companions that tried to charge in, and wasn't about to repeat their mistakes. Instead, it fell back, bringing up its shield and sword into a stance reminiscent of a Roman legionnaire.

Matthias swore. That was exactly what he hoped wouldn't happen. As long as the droids were charging at him, he could use his superior speed to dodge around them at will. However, now that he was being forced to go on the offensive, they could sit back and take jabs at him whenever he came near.

So engrossed in attempting to find out how to neutralize this new technique was Matthias that he almost neglected to check his motion tracker. It was only by the sudden flash of red and the sound of whirring servos behind him that the Spartan was able to throw himself out of the way of a vicious slash from behind.

Rolling back upright, Matthias sought about for his attacker, and was shocked to see the first machine he had put down right back up on its feet, wading back into the fight without so much as a hitching gear to indicate that it had been kicked by a Spartan supersoldier.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Matthias muttered.

He had no further time to complain, however; the other downed droid was also regaining its feet, joining its two comrades to slowly advance on the Spartan, seeking to herd him into a corner.

Matthias had no intention of being cornered.

With a burst of speed, Matthias darted forward, ducking under the ineffectual, premature swing of one of the droids and slamming an elbow into the robot's temple as he passed out of the circle. The machine staggered to the side at the massive impact, but regained its balance quickly and raised its sword and shield again.

Matthias took a deep breath. This could get interesting.

The melee continued unabated. Matthias was like a hornet, darting in and out of the machines' reach to deal quick, devastating blows before dancing back out of range. For their own part, the droids seem to absorb the blows as if they were nothing, working tirelessly to wear the Spartan down and deliver the final, fatal blow. Several of them scored minor hits on the Spartan, their vibroswords slicing through the shields and sparking off the shell of the MJOLNIR suit, but the hits were too few and too fleeting to leave any more than a few trace scratches on the super-tough exosuit. Matthias's body was a waterpark of adrenaline as he danced in and out of the ranges of the robots, scoring quick hits to the upper torso or head.

It quickly became apparent that Matthias would have to find some other way of dealing with the machines than punches, however; he felt certain he was doing _some _damage, but unless he managed to hit something vital, he doubted that he would be able to end the fight by boxing. Similarly, the occasional glance he got of Laura embroiled in her own fight with another trio of the machines showed that she wasn't having much luck with that approach, either.

But what could he use? His rifle and pistol were ineffectual, and the machines were moving around to quickly for grenades. There was nothing in the tunnel that could be used as an effective weapon-

Wait. Grenades?

Matthias grinned wolfishly as an idea came to mind, eyeing the sharp edges of the machines' armor plating. Yes, he might very well have a weapon after all. All he needed to do was separate one of the robots from the rest.

That opportunity presented itself when two of the machines began to charge forward, hoping to distract the Spartan while their comrade slipped around and attacked from the side. In doing so, however, they could not avoid bunching up due to the cramped nature of the tunnel.

Seizing the opportunity, Matthias leapt forward to meet their charge. Grabbing the first machine by the arm, he heaved it backwards into its partner, sending both of them crashing to the ground.

That would buy him a few seconds. Which is hopefully all he would need.

Turning to face the remaining robot, which was nearly on top of him by now, Matthias ducked low under the machine's swipe and then rocketed his arm forward, seizing the droid's sword arm near the wrist.

The machine automatically began to push back, and Matthias grimaced at the strain of holding back the arm as it tried to swing its shield arm at his head. Utilizing all the leverage he could from their interlocked position, Matthias curled the fingers of his free hand into a fist and smashed them into the robot's left shoulder joint.

Armor crumpled under the force of the blow, and the machine staggered backwards. More importantly, however, the contracting metal severed a vital few wires, and the machine's left arm went limp, the shield that had covered its torso dangling by its side.

_Bingo, _Matthias thought. The robot's red eyes seemed to glow even brighter, as if enraged by the injury, but Matthias paid it not mind. With a twist of his arm, he forced the robot's sword-arm way out to their right. Without missing a beat, his free hand reached up to the crumpled metal of the shoulder joint, slipping his fingers into a crack between the upper-arm and neck plating. Bracing himself against the droid, he locked his glove's articulation-essentially turning it into a steel vice-and ripped.

The nearly-indestructible phrik armor used to protect the Phase I dark troopers was capable of withstanding multiple strikes from a lightsaber. However, raw toughness can only do so much in the face of the laws of force application. Matthias had found the perfect spot to leverage his weight, and with the full strength of an augmented Spartan-IV supersoldier in MJOLNIR MK VIII powered assault armor, he was able to peel back several inches of the material off of the machine's chest, revealing the mess of delicate wiring and servos inside.

Remorselessly, Matthias reached in and grasped a handful of wiring, ripping it out with a violent wrench. The machine gave a strange groaning sound as one of its eyes went dead, and half of its body slumped over.

Matthias could have continued to disable it that way, but the other two droids were beginning to advance on him again. Reaching for a grenade, he pulled the pin, held it for a second, and then jammed it into the crumpled shoulder joint where it hooked and caught on a servo.

Letting go of the machine's sword arm, Matthias stepped back and delivered a vicious kick, denting the breastplate and sending the thing flying back towards its two fellows as he averted his eyes.

With a tremendous bang and a flash that lit up the tunnel, the grenade detonated, tearing the droid apart from the inside and scattering shrapnel all over the floor of the tunnel.

Matthias allowed himself a small grin. _Not so invincible after all, huh? _

Had he been facing human opponents, the sheer psychological shock of seeing their comrade explode right in front of them likely would have caused even the most disciplined veteran to freeze briefly in shock. For a mechanical guard, however, it was of no consequence to them; they would merely analyze their comrade's death in a detached, callous manner, and learn from it to not repeat the same mistake.

That was fine. Now that the odds were less skewed, Matthias would have some breathing room to try out maneuvers he wouldn't have dared test before. He was confident he could take the two survivors down. One of them was already "injured" by the blast; its shield arm hung slightly limp, as if several wires had been severed or pinched.

"Six," Matthias said into his COM as he prepared to engage his opponents again. "You still there?"

"Despite the best efforts of the tin-men, yes," Laura grated out, her voice strained as she struggled to find time to talk between exchanging blows. "Heard an explosion; that you?"

"Grenades," Matthias said simply. "Get it jammed into one of their joints where they can't pull it free and then step back."

"Sounds like a plan," Laura grunted back.

Matthias took that as the end of the conversation, and stepped forward to meet his opponents. A quick dodge threw him to the left of the foremost droid, and he used the momentum to spin himself like a top, raising his foot as he did so. The other machine saw the danger coming and tried to raise its shield, but Matthias was faster.

The designers of the Phase I dark trooper had taken into account blunt trauma, and thus, in addition to the incredibly-resilient phrik metal armor plating, had installed a powerful hydraulic "spring" in the neck of the droid that would allow it to twist and bend, withstanding pressures far beyond what would snap a human spine.

What they could not possibly taken into account, however, was the sheer amount of force delivered by a Spartan-IV supersoldier performing a roundhouse kick.

Matthias's armored foot, driven by genetically and mechanically-augmented muscles was going nearly sixty kilometers per hour when it intersected the dark trooper's head.

Simple Newtonian physics dictated the rest.

The droid was smashed into the floor of the tunnel, twisting violently as its mechanical body was infused with kinetic energies approximately equivalent to being hit by a small car directly in the head. The contorted body skipped along the floor, its head lolling at an unnatural angle from when the hydraulic spring supporting it had snapped at an unnatural angle. Any and all electronic connections running through the neck, head, and upper torso were immediately shut down, effectively "killing" the machine.

Matthias had no time to celebrate, nor to check whether the bang of a grenade going off behind him had been Laura emulating his tactic. The third and final trooper was closing in at incredible speed, shield up to absorb any blows launched by its adversary and sword-arm nearby to catch him wherever direction he might turn.

In response, Matthias simply stepped up to meet its charge, grabbing its sword arm with his hand as he had done before and setting his shoulder against its shield.

The droid remembered this as the tactic he had used against its companion, and assumed the Spartan was trying to repeat its results. Its "brain" automatically compensated, drawing back its shield from contact and bringing it to smash the Spartan's wrist free to allow it to escape.

Little did it know, that was exactly what Matthias had been counting on.

When the droid brought its shield up to bash Matthias's wrist away, it couldn't help but obscure its eyesight for a brief moment.

That split-second was all it took for Matthias to disengage his hold and slip around the machine's blind left side. As it turned to react, he kicked its sword-arm down, placed his hands around its head, and _wrenched._

Sparks flew and gears snapped as the droid's neck was violently twisted. While the Phase I dark trooper's head was capable of turning a complete circle, the massive amounts of torque and pressure Matthias was placing on the delicate servos that powered its neck movement was enough to snap the barrel off of an M41 LAAG. Matthias flexed his arms, crushing any resistance from the droid's hydraulics as he ruthlessly and methodically destroyed the machine's neck.

In another flash of a second, it was all over. The machine's eyes went dark as its photoreceptors were cut off, and with another twist, the entire skull came ripping off the trunk, sparking wires dangling from it like the macabre blood vessels of a severed human head.

The rest of the machine crumpled to the ground as Matthias tossed the head aside, bringing his breathing under control.

Another explosion reminded him that Laura was still fighting. Spinning around, he prepared to rush to her aid, only to find that she had things fairly well in hand.

One machine was lying in dismembered pieces all across the ground, evidently the victim of the same grenade tactic Matthias had used. Another was slumped against the wall, its sword completely missing from a snapped-off forearm and armor pockmarked with shrapnel.

Laura was _dueling _the final one, holding in her hand the sword she had apparently ripped from the mechanical corpse of her previous opponent. Apparently it was still activated, as while Matthias watched, she ducked under a strike from her enemy, slipped past the shield, and launched a blindingly-fast flurry of slashes targeting the gaps in the armor. As wires were sliced and connections disrupted, limbs on the droid's body began to go limp and unresponsive, allowing her to knock aside her opponent's shield, plant her boot on its chest, and drive her newly-acquired vibrosword into its neck. A quick, vicious side-to-side cut severed nearly all connections from the head to the torso, and the machine pitched backwards to the ground.

For a moment, she stood there, regaining her breath. "Interesting weapon," she finally said, holding the vibrosword up. "You might want to get one."

"Maybe," Matthias admitted, walking over to where his rifle lay on the ground and retrieving it.

"-I repeat, this November One to Novembers Five and Six. Five and Six, if you are receiving, please respond immediately." Katrina's voice broke across Matthias's COM.

Laura responded immediately. "November One, this is Six. Five is here as well."

Pause. Then, "Where the hell are you."

"In the railjet tunnel, ma'am," Laura said.

"Copy that," Katrina responded. "We're at the terminal, coming to you, over."

Matthias breathed a sigh of relief that the rest of their team was returning; despite the fact that they had emerged victorious, Matthias had no desire to scuffle with any more of the robotic guards, especially with such lopsided odds.

Soon enough, four distinct MJOLNIR-clad silhouettes appeared at the entrance to the tunnel. Matthias raised a hand, and Katrina reciprocated.

"What the hell happened here?" Isaac asked as they jogged up. The assault specialist seemed chagrined at the fact that he had missed out on a scrap, and he kicked at one of the severed mechanical heads, sending it smashing into a wall.

"Freakin' robot soldiers," Laura grunted. "Came outta nowhere. Geared up like they were going to some post-apocalyptic renaissance fair."

Takedama was kneeling, carefully turning over one of the droids. "Shock drones," he said. "Heavily armored and built for close combat." Standing up, he shook his head. "Our enemies appear to be more advanced that we thought."

"Didn't seem to help 'em much," Isaac grunted, bringing his M55-E with underslung shotgun up to his shoulder. "If a recon specialist and a joker can take 'em down, they shouldn't be that much of a problem."

Matthias didn't bother responding, knew that the assault specialist was merely being his normal prickly self. Laura gave him a glare-the effect of which was somewhat lost due to their polarized visors-but left it at that.

"Everyone, lock it down," Katrina cut in. "We don't have time for this. Sarge says that that if we follow this tunnel, we'll eventually come to a maintenance shaft that we can use to climb up to the bridge."

"Does he know why the railjet isn't working?" Matthias asked.

"He said the Imperials executed a complete shutdown of the ship's main computer; effectively preventing him from interfacing with any program but at the cost of shutting down almost every system onboard. We pulled him out a while ago to see if we could find a hard mainframe uplink to deliver him directly to, but there's been no such luck thus far. If we want to restart this ship, we'll have to deliver him directly to the ship's data mainframe on the bridge."

"I'm assuming this means the elevators won't be working either," Amir said in a tired voice.

"Affirmative," Katrina said. She glanced around. "Let's get moving."

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga _(DD-442)

"Still no signal?"

"Negative, ma'am," Ensign Karina Talbot replied, looking up from her consoles. "No further communications have been received since zero-four-twenty hours."

Captain Hannah Farley sighed, leaning back in her command chair as she turned her gaze out the bridge window. The remaining Allied naval forces in-system-consisting of the _Inexorable_, the _Cloak and Dagger,_ and what was left of Battlegroup Valley Forge-were in an elliptical orbit just outside of skirmish range with the Imperial ships that had closed in to form a protective ring around their crippled supercruiser. Just far enough to keep the Imperials' focus on them, but not so close as to risk direct engagement.

Hannah held no illusions about what would happen in a direct engagement. While the Allied ships had done an excellent job of whittling down the Imperial fleet, there was still nearly forty of them remaining, and their technologically-advanced state removed the "quality versus quantity" adage from the equation.

Nukes were an option, she supposed. Between the remaining vessels of Battlegroup Valley Forge, they had access to twenty-two Shiva-class nuclear missiles, as well as the _Cloak and Dagger_'s remaining complement of HORNET nuclear mines. This far away from New Arcadia, the EMP would not be enough to disrupt UNSC operations on the surface, especially since all modern UNSC equipment was specially EMP-hardened.

The problem was delivery. Other than the stealth-coated HORNET mines, which were stationary weapons, Shiva-class missiles were relatively slow and would be easy to intercept before they reached their intended targets. In order to ensure the nukes reached their destinations, they would have to be launched from the space-warfare equivalent of point-blank range, by which time the Imperial lasers would have torn the Allied ships apart.

Hannah drummed her fingers on the edge of her chair. There had been an attempt by several admirals after the Great War had ended to equip ships-of-the-line with special stealth Shiva missiles, but it had been turned down by the UEG Congress on the grounds of it being too expensive while the UNSC was still desperately trying to replenish its nuclear stockpile after having it nearly depleted during the War.

She snorted. In a few days, once news of the attack spread, she bet those tight-fisted politicians would be eating their words.

Back to the topic at hand. With nukes as effective as spitwads in their current situation, the Allies' only hope was to remove the Imperial super-ship from the equation. Once it was destroyed-or, preferably, captured and returned to UNSC/Separatist-controlled space for the R&D eggheads-the superior range of the Allied MAC guns and energy projectors would allow them to pick off the remaining Imperial vessels one at a time.

Well, that was the plan, at least. Hannah's fingers continued to drum their ceaseless beat. The Spartans' orders had been to either capture the ship's bridge, from which their AI could return the ship to a secure area, or to sabotage it and then escape. Once that had been accomplished, the Allied ships would move in to cover the vessel's retreat to the world of Durite on the system's fringes, or the Spartans' escape.

The Spartans had been equipped with a one-shot transmitter with three functions that would carry its message back to the Allies on an extremely powerful transmission that the team had either captured the vessel, sabotaged it, or required extraction immediately.

Every minute that passed without receiving any information gave Hannah another sixty seconds to obsess over every flaw in her hastily-developed plan.

Calming herself, she blew out a breath. It was alright. Spartans were the best troops the galaxy had to offer; they would find a way to accomplish their objective.

000

_Subjugator-_class cruiser _Malice_

"What do you mean, _you've lost them_?"

The officer Kehren was addressing swallowed, his eyes darting from side to side as he sought support from his fellows. Finding none, he plucked up his courage, sucked in a breath, and repeated, "Security forces have had no contact with the intruders for the past fifteen minutes. The last confirmed footage we had was from a dark trooper security droid that confronted a pair of them near the central railjet terminal before the feed was lost. We've had no contact since then."

Kehren exhaled slowly. "Are there any patrols along the railjet course?"

The officer frowned. "Ah, no, sir," he said. "The system is shut down, so the intruders can't use it for transportation. We didn't see any need to patrol it, especially since the other four are still loose somewhere."

Kehren rubbed his forehead, choosing his next words carefully. "Alright; listen to me and listen to me good. Massive cyborg super-commandos do not just disappear, and there is no such thing as a secure back door. The railjet system may be shut down, but there may still be an elevator shaft or maintenance hallway they could use to get back into the main hallways.

"So, what do we gather from all this?"

The officer swallowed again before replying. "Send patrols down the railjet system. Sir."

"Precisely," Kehren said. "Dismissed."

"Sir! Yes, sir!" the man barked, snapping a salute before practically falling over himself in his attempt to get back to his post.

Kehren watched him go. Months of working under 2nd Captain Barralon had eroded the crew's efficiency, but they still retained some of that polish and discipline that was hammered into every Imperial naval officer.

Kehren turned. Barralon and Ozzel were standing in a corner of the bridge, muttering darkly at each other and casting not-so-subtle glances of seething anger at Kehren. Normally, after he assumed command, Kehren would have ordered the two incompetents back to their quarters so that they did not interfere with his orders, but the locked-down bridge doors unfortunately prevented that from occurring.

Well, he mused, they would at least make useful cannon fodder should the bridge be breached.

000

"Remind me again whose idea this was?" Isaac D-142 grunted in annoyance as he dragged himself another few meters up the maintenance shaft, sparks flaring where his armor brushed the metal walls of the narrow construction.

"Mine," Katrina responded, her tone icy. "And unless you can come up with a better idea on how to reach the bridge, put up and shut up."

Isaac fell silent, and Matthias waited as the assault specialist hauled himself up to the next set of handholds, freeing up room for the recon specialist to move.

Moving slowly in order to maneuver in the cramped space, Matthias carefully extended an arm upwards, grasping a red pipe running along the wall. A quick tug proved it to be capable of supporting his weight, and he repeated the motion with his other arm, hauling himself up a few meters and then waiting for Isaac to move to repeat the process.

The Spartans' size gave them advantages in many areas. One of the few it did not was maneuvering through maintenance shafts. All of them had been forced to deactivate their shields in order to squeeze into the cramped space, and progress was painfully slow.

That said, the shaft was the quickest way to the bridge, according to Sarge's schematics. They had followed the railjet tunnel for nearly a kilometer, jogging through the darkness before they found the shaft. Intended for maintenance and service drones specially-designed for working in cramped quarters, to say that it had been a squeeze to fit six Spartan-IVs into it was the understatement of the year.

As Isaac moved again and gave Matthias room, the recon specialist shot a glance upwards, peering around his teammates above him. The nav point marking the exit vent read 133 meters.

Of climbing.

To go.

Sighing, Matthias clambered up to the next available hold, a depression in the wall leading to a small grate while his feet came to rest on the pipe he had previously vacated.

A slow and painful process, but the best one they had to avoid detection, as well as the most direct route to the bridge.

Matthias gritted his teeth as Isaac missed a hold and slipped back, the top of his boot skipping against Matthias's helmet. The assault specialist mumbled an apology and re-secured his grip before hauling himself up.

This was most assuredly _not_ going to be fun.

000

"What do you mean, _they're not there?_"

The officer Kehren had previously been addressing was back, and his chin quavered as he responded. "Patrols have scouted the railjet tunnel thoroughly from bow to stern, sir. There's been no sign of the intruders. But they did find…"

"Find what?" Kehren pressed.

The officer swallowed. "Pieces, sir. Of the dark troopers. Completely destroyed, and in some cases dismembered."

Kehren stepped back, raising an eyebrow. While he knew little about the Dark Trooper project, he knew enough to know that even the Phase Is were hardly pushovers.

And this was just the latest in an uncomfortably-long string of demonstrations of the intruders' prowess.

Despite all the blast doors protecting the bridge, despite the thousands of stromtroopers still onboard, Kehren no longer felt quite as secure.

"Order them to continue the search," he said. "All combat personnel are to engage in free-ranging patrols until the intruders are found."

"Yes, sir!" the officer replied, dashing back to his post.

Kehren looked around. The bridge of the _Malice _ was one of the most secure rooms on the vessel, protected by three blast doors and accessible by only a single hallway. A dozen stormtroopers provided security on the bridge proper, and all of the crew carried sidearms.

Not that it would do them any good, Kehren thought sourly. The average naval crewmen had next to zero practice handling a blaster; the Academy graduation requirements were quite generous when it came to accuracy. If it came to a fight, the crewmen would likely prove more of a hindrance than an asset.

There was an escape pod on the bridge, capable of holding forty personnel. It was to be a last resort, however; allowing the enemy to capture the _Malice _would be unacceptable. A self-destruct would have to be enacted before the crew could punch out.

A self-destruct, however, could not be authorized without the entry of a specific code into the ship's main computer. A main computer than Kehren had just recently shut down.

No. He would not begin to second-guess himself now. The crew was looking to him for leadership, and he could not turn wishy-washy on them after having assumed command. If things came to it, the rest of the fleet could open fire on the _Malice_.

Kehren's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden blast that sent tremors through the floor, the explosion tremendously loud. The bridge's stormtrooper guard immediately sought cover, aiming their weapons at the door.

"What the krif was that?" one lieutenant voiced aloud.

"That," Kehren said, his voice calmer than he felt, "was the sound of a blast door being blown open."

The intruders had found the bridge.

"Stormtroopers!" he yelled. "Defensive positions, protect the bridge stations! Crewmen; if the boarders break through, you are to destroy all equipment at your station before proceeding to the escape pod! They _cannot_ be allowed to capture this ship!"

The bridge burst into action, stormtroopers assuming positions facing the door as crewmen stood about with bemused and terrified looks on their faces. Forcing himself to calm down, Kehren strode over to where Barralon and Ozzel stood.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you may want to head over to the escape pod."

"No," Barralon growled, reaching down to retrieve his sidearm. "Whatever orders you may have, this is still _my _ship, and I'll die before I let the enemy stand at her helm."

"Quite stirring, captain, but I can assure you than this is not a poem," Kehren bit out. "If you are captured, the enemy will have access to a potential treasure trove of information."

"You assume that I would break under questioning?" Barralon blustered. "I'm offended."

"Based upon what I've seen so far, captain, I have no reason to think otherwise," Kehren replied coolly. "Your feelings are of no concern to anyone; don't flatter yourself into thinking otherwise.

"Admiral," he said, turning to Ozzel. "I'm sure you're aware that this applies to you as well."

Ozzel nodded, his countenance surprisingly calm as he began to make his way over to where the escape pod was located, at the foot of a slight of stairs near the nose of the bridge. Barralon puffed up his chest, as if to begin a protest, but one flat stare from Kehren and the man deflated like a popped balloon. "Yes, sir," he said.

Kehren walked past, no longer able to bear the sight of the man. How Barralon had made it to the rank of 2nd Captain he had no idea. He made a mental note to check the man's service record when this whole mess was over, see if he was the son of some high-up Senator.

These were all just precautions anyways, he told himself. They weren't _actually _going to abandon ship; after all, there were still two ultra-heavy blast doors remaining between them and-

_Boom!_

The explosion was much louder this time, much closer, and it sent several crewmen diving under console banks for cover.

Kehren blinked. _Make that _one _ultra-heavy blast door._

000

"Fire in the hole!"

Matthias shrank back into the crevice of the wall he was hiding in as Isaac stabbed the detonator for the pound of Artex plastic explosive they had molded to the second blast door they had come across. Normally, a pound of the volatile explosive would be massive overkill, but these doors leading to the bridge were of a much tougher composition than their normal brethren.

There was a tremendous explosion that rocked the floor, sending bits of debris flying. When Isaac announced 'clear', Matthias peered out of cover to find a man-sized hole blown in the blast door.

"Two down, one to go," Isaac said as he stepped through, rifle up and scanning.

The hallway was empty, save for the word "bridge" on the floor with an arrow pointing towards yet another set of massive blast doors. In fact, the only troops they had encountered in this hallway so far were half-a-dozen troopers guarding the turbolift at the far end.

They hadn't expected six Spartans to suddenly coming dropping out of a vent in the ceiling. The fight had been one-sided enough.

Now, however, it appeared that the Imperials had an endless supply of blast doors to protect their bridge. The Spartans had already advanced through two of the metal monstrosities-thanks to the magical powers of two pounds of high explosive-but their stocks were running low. The third door appeared to be even larger than its predecessors, which Matthias hoped was a sign that it was the final obstacle.

"Inventory," Katrina said. "How much Artex do we have left?"

All the Spartans searched their pouches, pulling out meager portions of the plastic explosive and forming them together.

"About half a pound, ma'am," Isaac spoke once they had finished.

Katrina pursed her lips. "Not enough."

There was silence as the Spartans wracked their brains for an answer. They had not come this far to be stopped by something as simple as a locked door.

Finally, Isaac stepped up. "Everyone give me your C-12."

The Spartans glanced at each other, once again reaching into their tactical vests in search. The foaming explosive was generally used for detonations where a certain amount of finesse was required, as opposed to the brute force exerted by Artex.

That said, it was still nothing to be sneezed at. Between the six commandos, they scrounged up a few cans of the substance, handing them over to Isaac as they allowed the assault specialist to do his work.

Door-breaching was a specialized art, one that all assault specialists learned by heart. Isaac went to work immediately, placing the half-pound of Artex directly on the seam between the two doors. The most powerful explosive would serve as their kick-off charge, delivering a punch to weaken the metal and allow the weaker C-12 to finish it off.

Then, he took C-12 and sprayed an almost nest-like construction on top of the Artex block. While the foaming explosive was drying, he then retrieved a pair of fragmentation and a single smoke grenade from his combat harness and placed them gently into the nest, allowing the foam to seal them up and essentially creating a deadly fused bundle of high explosive goodness.

"You might want to stand back," Isaac warned as he inserted the detonator chip.

With a single glance at the dangerous-looking mass of explosives, Matthias retreated back behind the second set of blast doors.

"On my mark," Katrina said. "Breach and clear."

Matthias slipped the safety off his M55.

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

"Mark."

000

Kehren was directing a group of officers towards the escape pod when the final door exploded.

The sound was deafening, a sudden blast of white noise followed by a ringing in his ears. Kehren, along with a good majority of the crew, instinctively dropped to the ground at the force of the blast.

The stormtroopers began firing immediately, pouring a hail of red lasers into the clearing curtain of smoke. Several of the crewmen contributed, mustering the courage to stick a hand above cover and take a potshot or two.

There was no answering fire. As a matter of fact, there didn't appear to be anyone there at all. A black curtain of smoke shrouded the threshold of the door, obscuring all view, but no sound or indication of life could be heard from beyond.

As Kehren's hearing gradually returned, he slowly picked himself back up off the floor, holding his sidearm in front of him.

The lasers stopped as the stormtroopers realized there was no return fire. At an indication from the leading sergeant, one of the white-clad troopers rose up from cover and began to walk slowly towards the smoke, holding a thermal detonator out to throw.

He never go the chance.

Six massive figures came plunging out of the screen like the apparitions of myth, black smoke rolling off their green body armor, giving them a wraith-like appearance. Their strange black rifles were up and firing immediately, the stormtroopers falling dead one after the other to the accurate fire.

Kehren's eyes went wide as the bridge exploded into combat again, lasers and bullets flying back and forth with alarming frequency. Golden fields flickered around the edges of the intruders' armor, absorbing any bolts that hit while they dealt out death to any nearby. The crewmen, poorly-trained and poorly-equipped, scattered almost immediately, forgetting the order to destroy their stations in favor of a flat-out panic towards the escape pod.

Bullet whizzed by Kehren's head, causing him to duck once again as he realized that, in his black officer's uniform, he must present quite the target. He returned fire, squeezing off a series of bolts, but he couldn't tell if he hit anything amongst the chaos of the firefight.

The bridge was lost, he realized. The ship was lost. The stormtroopers were fighting valiantly, but they simply couldn't hold.

"Fall back!" Kehren yelled, rising up and sprinting away with the speed known only to the desperate. "Fall back to the pod!"

What followed was a stampede as surviving crewmembers all scrambled for the escape pod. His breath ragged in his ears, Kehren sprinted down the stairs, bullets and lasers streaking past all around.

He was only a few strides away when a sudden impact clipped his left shoulder, spinning him around in a circle as he stumbled to regain his balance. His arm burned as if branded, and a quick glance showed a dark stain quickly spreading against his uniform.

Panic swept through him, sending his heart-rate skyrocketing and adrenaline pulsing through his system. He practically leaped the final few meters to the escape pod, scrambling into the cramped craft as the sounds of battle continued behind him. The pod was simple in design, with a row of seats on either side of a long aisle. Crewmen were throwing themselves into the seats, strapping themselves in as the assigned pilot worked controls near the nose.

"Is everyone in?" someone asked, but they was cut off as a shower of sparks rained from the ceiling, bullets pinging off the interior of the pod.

"We can't wait!" Kehren yelled. "Just go!"

"Sir?" the pilot asked. "Are you sure that-?"

"Go!" Kehren bellowed as another burst of rounds rattled around the interior of the pod.

"Yes, sir!" the pilot barked, turning to the controls. The door sealed shut, and then there was a whir of hydraulics as the pod was detached from the bridge nose before the engines activated, sending the craft hurtling away from the _Malice_.

For a few seconds, the interior of the pod was silent as everyone attempted to come to grips with what had just happened.

"Sir, you're injured!" a lieutenant said, and Kehren glanced back down at his shoulder. The dull red lighting inside the craft provided poor illumination, but enough for him to more thoroughly examine the wound.

It was just a flesh wound, thank goodness, but none the less painful for it. The bullet had nicked his shoulder, slicing his black uniform open to allow him to see the ragged torn flesh underneath, as well as the crimson liquid oozing up from the cut.

Kehrne grimaced as the nerves continued to pulse their message of pain, leaning against the wall as the lieutenant rushed over with a first aid kit. He winced as a needle was inserted into his arm, but when the infusion of painkillers began, he sighed in relief as the pain faded into numbness.

As the young lieutenant began to administer antiseptic and bind up the wound, Kehren glanced around, concern growing as he examined the faces staring back at him. Ozzel was there, as was Lieutenant Ostress, but 2nd Captain Ardus Barralon was nowhere to be seen.

A gut punch of dread hit his stomach. If that idiot had gotten himself captured, he would be a treasure trove of information to the enemy.

"Did anyone see what happened to Captain Barralon?" he asked, dreading the response.

For a few moments, there was silence, and then a young sensors officer spoke up. "He's dead, sir."

Kehren raised an eyebrow. "Dead? You're sure?"

The officer nodded. "Quite sure, sir." He winced, recalling the memory. "He got shot right in front of me."

Kehren leaned back as the lieutenant finished tying a makeshift bandage around his wound. "A pity," he muttered. "I was looking forward to killing that bastard myself."

000

"Bridge secure, ma'am," Isaac reported as the last of the stormtrooper guard fell lifeless to the floor.

"Good work, team," Katrina said. 'Good work' might seem to many like a bit of an understatement after having captured a five-kilometer long warship, but to the men and women of November Team, they knew that such a remark was high praise from their leader. "Spread out, find the mainframe."

The Spartans spread out in a fan-like formation, combing every square foot of the bridge. Stepping over the bodies of dead stormtroopers and crewmen, Matthias examined the area. Most of the console stations were dark as a result of the shutdown, and others were shattered, no doubt by their former operators.

The mainframe wasn't that hard to spot; located under a walkway in the center of the bridge, it was a massive, squat, black machine, with rows upon rows of blinking colored lights lining its front.

"Two," Katrina said. "You know what to do."

"Yes, ma'am," Takedama responded, reaching behind his helmet and ejecting the storage chip that held their resident AI. While there was no guarantee that the Imperial mainframe would have a receiver slot capable of accepting the chip, the beauty of modern technology allowed the chip to send out a single, high-intensity pulse that an AI could transfer themselves on once they were close enough to their destinations.

Takedama took a knee, fiddling with the chip and the unfamiliar Imperial technology. Apparently he did something right, however, as a second later a holoprojector sprang to life, spitting up Sarge's familiar image.

"Finally!" the AI muttered, swinging his Thompson down from his shoulder. "You know how much I hate being cramped up on those confounded things. Ah, the freedom! The processing power is-"

"Sarge," Katrina interrupted. "Update. Now."

"Yes, ma'am," the paratrooper responded with a salute. "The EMP has worn off, so the engines will be operational once I reboot the program."

"So we're a go?"

"That's affirmative," Sarge confirmed.

Katrina nodded and retrieved their one-shot transmitter. "Lock down all doors; we want to capture as many of them alive as we can."

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga_ (DD-442)

"Captain! We're receiving a transmission!"

Hannah sat upright, a surge of adrenaline washing away the last vestiges of weariness in her body. "Source?" she queried.

"It's coming from the target ship," Talbot confirmed, her fingers tapping the keyboards as she sought to isolate the signal. A few seconds later, she turned around. "Confirmed as positive signal. Spartan team has captured the bridge and are in control of the vessel."

Hannah couldn't help but allow herself a small smile. "Send the engagement order; we need to buy them enough time to get them clear of the fray."

"Yes, ma'am," Talbot said, and Hannah was already moving on.

"Bring us onto an attack heading," Hannah ordered as she examined the tactical screen. "Heading zero-three-eight. Spin up both MACs; triple skirmish round in the Number One and a standard heavy in the Number Two. Klimov; the target is up to you. Gates, coordinate the _Bunker Hill _and _Brandywine _on Master 18, the _Trenton _and _Concord_ on Master 19."

"Of course, ma'am," Gates responded. "What of the _Inexorable_?"

Hannah smiled, turning her gaze to the massive outline of the _Reverence_-class Separatist cruiser on the tactical screen. "I don't think we should presume to tell the Elites who they can and can't shoot at."

000

CSS _Inexorable_

"Shipmaster! We've received a free engagement order from the human commander!"

Ri'shek Markum grinned, his tentacles splaying wide. It had been too long since the _Inexorable _had clashed with the invaders, and the past few hours waiting for the engagement order had been the equivalent of torture to the battle-hungry crew of Sangheili.

"Spin up the energy projector!" he ordered. "Fire at will when ready."

"Working," came the voice of Elindar, the white dragon's hologram appearing above the bridge holotank. "Projector will be ready in thirty seconds."

Ri'shek nodded his thanks to the AI. "Helm," he said, "bring us up to flank speed along with our allies. _We _shall score the first blow!"

A roar of approval went up from the bridge crew. The Imperials' blood was in the water, and the Sangheili had the scent of battle in their nostrils. They would not be easily dissuaded.

000

UNSC _Ticonderoga_ (DD-442)

The Imperial fleet was in chaos. That much was visible even on the tactical screen, but it became even more apparent as the Allies drew closer. Imperial ships were milling back and forth, as if unsure of what was going on and how to properly respond. The _Malice, _now under control of the Spartans' AI, was beginning to turn its massive, ponderous bulk, causing the smaller ships around it to scatter like roaches.

Perhaps the fleet commander had been on that ship, Hannah thought. That would explain the sudden lack of cohesion among the Imperials, and would also be a massive victory for the Allies.

In any case, the Allied ships were able to close to nearly eighty thousand kilometers of the Imperial fleet before the enemy noticed the threat bearing down upon them and began to mobilize to confront it.

And by then it was far too late to avoid the opening salvo.

The _Inexorable _struck first. A lance of brilliant white fire parted the darkness of space as the Elites fired their energy projector. The weapon that had caused UNSC tacticians so much grief during the Great War once gain proved its effectiveness, intersecting neatly the path of a Nebulon-B frigate. The frigate's shields boiled away under the intense heat and then popped, allowing the beam to slice through the thin spar that connected the bow and stern of the vessel, melting the armor like paper. The frigate was cut in half, its component parts drifting silently off into the vacuum.

"We are within range for the MACs," Klimov informed Hannah, his voice crisp and professional.

"Fire at will," Hannah replied.

"Firing," Klimov said.

A triple-flash of light saturated the bow of the destroyer as the _Ticonderoga_'s Number-One MAC fired, sending a trio of three light standoff shells towards an Acclamator assault ship. Traveling at 30,000 meters per second, the shells streaked across the blackness of space, slamming into their target before it could evade.

The Acclamator's shields flashed once, twice, three times, sending the shells skipping off into space as they absorbed the massive kinetic energy. Klimov then fired the _Ticonderoga_'s secondary railgun batteries, each one sending a sixty-ton shell towards their target. The Acclamator's weakened shields were peppered by the smaller impacts, further lowering their strength, and Klimov finally fired the Number-Two MAC.

The 600-ton heavy shell flashed across the distance, penetrating the weakened shields and smashing into the armored plating. The massive kinetic energy behind the shell propelled it through the armor, punching a massive hole through the vessel from starboard to port. Caught in the midst of an evasive turn, the Acclamator's engines failed and inertia continued its path, scattering debris behind it in a massive arc.

A volley of Barrett missiles finished the job, the white contrails streaking across space towards the wounded Acclamator. The Imperial ship's few remaining functional point-defense batteries picked off several of the incoming missiles, but not enough to make a difference. The cloud of high-explosive missiles blasted apart armor plate as a fireworks bouquet ignited inside the ship.

"Keep us in a holding pattern until the MACs are recharged," Hannah ordered. "We just need to keep them focused on us long enough."

"Optimizing holding pattern," Gates said. "Done. Transferring to navigation."

"Received," Ensign Harrell said. "Transitioning to holding pattern now." A low rumble ran through the ship as the destroyer's engines slowed.

Meanwhile, the frigates had not been idle. Teaming the smaller ships up in pairs allowed them to bring down a larger vessel. The _Concord _and _Trenton _coordinated MAC and missile fire to knock another Nebulon-B frigate out of the fight, its fragile spine snapping under the hammering of fire it received, and the _Brandywine _and _Bunker Hill_ managed to disable a Victory-class Star Destroyer before being forced to retreat.

The _Inexorable _did not fall back, its shields flashing as they absorbed the green turbolasers smashing into them. Hannah frowned, wondering what the Elite shipmaster could possibly be doing, when she noticed the red motes of light building up along the cruiser's lateral lines.

As its shields glowed brighter, struggling to repel the deadly lasers, the _Inexorable_ stood its ground. Red light pooled forward from its hull before finally crystallizing into two distinct plasma torpedoes, rocketing towards another Victory-class.

The captain of the Victory, remembering from previous engagements the deadly tracking abilities of the torpedoes, attempted to boost across the torpedoes' angle of attack, hoping to build up enough speed to be able to slingshot around the battleground and outrun them.

It was an impressive plan, and it might have even worked. But as the Victory drew closer, the _Inexorable _opened up with a barrage of pulse lasers, the deadly blue beams burning the Victory's shields away and allowing one of the plasma torpedoes to intersect the ship, burning through the vessel straight to the reactor.

Hannah averted her eyes as the Victory came apart in a fantastic fireball, the flames briefly fed by the oxygen inside the vessel then dying out when they were exposed to oxygen, leaving behind a drifting field of debris.

Then and only then did the _Inexorable _fall back. Its shields failed under a barrage of fire from an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, but it managed to escape with only minor structural damage to its aft.

The Allied fleet may not have destroyed a great amount of Imperial vessels, but their objective had been accomplished. Distracted by the sudden attack, the Imperial fleet had neglected to chase down the _Malice_, which was now fleeing the combat zone towards Durite at flank speed.

"Reroute the _Concord _and the _Brandywine_," Hannah ordered. "Escort that cruiser back to Durite."

"Yes, ma'am," Gates said. While the _Malice _had a large enough lead that it likely wouldn't need escort, some of the faster Imperial ships might have been able to catch it. With the two frigates escorting, however, that threat would be eliminated.

The bridge was silent for a moment, and then Ramirez said, "Damn. We actually did it."

"No, lieutenant," Hannah said, "the Spartans did it. We were just the sideshow. Now, prepare the MACs; we're not out of the woods yet."

**This chapter is dedicated to my now-depleted supply of Cheez-Its and Mountain Dew, which gave me the determination and caffeine required to finally finish it.**


	19. Verpine

Chapter IXX

**A/N: This one took longer than I'd like. Blame the Battlefield 3 beta. Next chappy should come quicker, though; I've got a much better idea of where it's going than I had while writing this one.**

Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

Nylson Fields, Illerean Subcontinent

Imperial Monolith Base

The Imperial Army was, if anything, a well-oiled machine. Drawing on the tactics and strategies developed over thousands of years by its predecessor, the Republic, its officer corps prided themselves on leading the best-trained, best-equipped fighting men in the galaxy. Their superior tactics and technology had allowed them to dominate the known galaxy for generations, defeating all enemies that rose up against them, from factions as large as the CIS to rebellions on backwater planets. It was said that the Empire's armies were limitless, unstoppable. Their aura of perfection was as much a part of their armor as the stark white plating of its legions of stormtroopers. There was not a force in the galaxy strong enough to rival the might of the Imperial Army.

Which made the situation General Wesson Scorth, 8th Imperial Field Army, was in quite tricky indeed.

The timetable developed for the invasion had called for all resistance to be pacified within seventy-two hours of initial landing. Three standard days-worth of fighting to subdue all organized resistance on-planet, capture the major cities, and begin entrenchment operations while they awaited reinforcements.

They were now a day into the invasion, and it appeared as if that timetable was going to be shot to the seven Corellian hells by the time this battle was done.

Resistance had been much steeper than expected, with the outnumbered but tenacious enemy demonstrating a ferocious resolve to fight for every single meter of ground. Their technology, while not on the same level with Imperial equipment, was advanced in its own right, with deadly-accurate artillery fire and personal shielding systems. Since this was the first contact the Empire had ever had with this 'UNSC', their tactics and operating methods were likewise foreign.

Another indication of how poorly-planned this operation had been from the start, Scorth thought sourly. A planetary invasion was not a matter to be rushed; there needed to be intelligence collected, geographical data examined, and a host of other factors attended to months before you started talking troop deployments and asset allocation. Had it been up to Scorth, the Imperial forces now spread across the planet, besieging different cities, would have seized the capital first, and established that as a solid beachhead before expanding across the rest of the world. Now, determined resistance across the planet was preventing the Imperial forces from effectively linking up.

But it was not Scorth's place to question orders. Especially not those that came from the Emperor himself.

No, he would have to do the best with what he was given.

"Sir? We're receiving a transmission back from Colonel Hestoff."

Scorth tore his eyes off the massive holotable depicting the city and surrounding area that dominated the center of the fortified Imperial command post at Monolith Base, turning to face the young lieutenant that was standing nearby, hands nervously folded in front of him.

"And?" Scorth asked tiredly.

"They've just been fired upon by the enemy walker," the lieutenant said. "No casualties, but they've incurred light damage to several light vehicles."

"Pull them back," Scorth sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Send in a flight of subfighters to cover their withdrawal."

"Yes, sir!" the lieutenant responded, throwing a hasty salute before bouncing back to his post.

Scorth returned his gaze to the battlefield display, watching as the blue square that represented Hestoff's light armored company pulling away from the battlelines around the city outskirts. A flight of red triangles, representing enemy aerial units, began to form up to attack the retreating Imperials, but were deterred as a squadron of Imperial Sienar subfighters-represented by blue triangles-swooped in. Outnumbered and far from the range of their ground-based SAM support, the UNSC aircraft wisely broke off their pursuit in favor of returning to the friendly airspace above the city center.

Those kind of tit-for-tat exchanges had been going on for the past half-day, small battles that accomplished little overall. A few blocks would change hands, maybe a spotting point, but overall, the raging battle of the night and day before had bogged down into the morass of urban warfare that all commanders loathed.

It was even worse for Scorth. The Imperial Army, with its massive numerical advantages and technological edge, was accustomed to simply washing over all enemy resistance like a tide. While that had worked fine during the Clone Wars, when the robotic enemy rarely put up any creative opposition, it had also led to a degrading in the ability of the Imperial officers to position their troops on a basic strategic level. The more the Imperial assault bogged down, the longer this fight dragged on and the longer the Imperials were kept from leveraging their superior numbers to sweep away the enemy, the more chance the UNSC stood of forcing a draw, or perhaps even recovering a tactical victory.

Scorth knew that the stalling of the Imperial momentum was a potentially-fatal situation if not ignored, as did all of his experienced staff. They needed a breakthrough, a sudden and violent attack that would break the deadlock in the city's outskirts and allow the mobile, numerous Imperial forces to drive into the heart of the city.

The question was where, and how.

Their AT-ATs were gone, destroyed by a sabotage operation, and with much of the Imperial line-breaking ability. While Scorth still had in reserve a large number of the older All Terrain Tactical Enforcer models, the AT-TEs were relics of the Clone Wars, and while still formidable, did not possess the same durability and firepower as the AT-ATs had.

Which meant that the massive alien walker would butcher them like womp rats if he committed them to an advance.

The walker. That was the crux of the enemy defense, the element that had mystified and frustrated all of their attempts to understand and counter it. After dropping into the battlefield _from orbit_, it had proceeded to decimate the Imperial force sent after the saboteurs, including their last AT-AT, while suffering very little apparent damage.

After that awesome display of firepower, it had proceeded, under heavy enemy air cover, to stomp its way back to the UNSC-held city, easily fending off any Imperial attempts at intercepting it.

Once it was thoroughly entrenched within the UNSC lines, the walker used its incredibly-powerful beam cannon to clear away all Imperial positions nearby, forcing the Imperial forces back in a circle all the way around its position while taking potshots at any armored columns that attempted to move in too close. Attempts to dislodge it by air and artillery had proved unsuccessful, leading to the slowdown in fighting now apparent. Colonel Hestoff had been probing the edges of the walker's range, seeing where it could fire and where its dead zones were, when he was called back.

They were not going to destroy that walker through normal means, that much was evident. They did not have the capabilities to reach and destroy it with conventional tactics, and without sacrificing a massive amount of armor.

So, they would have to turn to unconventional means.

"How long?" Scorth asked. He did not need to stipulate; every man in the room knew exactly what he was talking about: how long it would be before their greatest chance to remove the enemy walker would be operational.

"Approximately ten hours, sir," came the reply from the post of Colonel Ergun Whimmer, chief commanding officer, Special Weapons Division, 8th Imperial Field Army. "We're working on installing the backup generators now. After that, once the dome is put in place, all that will remain is to hit all the switches and connect everything up."

Scorth grunted in response, crossing his arms. "Ten hours is a long time, colonel, especially on our timetable."

"Sir," Whimmer said, his voice careful, "you can't rush a job like this. You might be able to set up a pre-fab barracks in a matter of minutes, but we're working with highly delicate equipment here. On average, it takes forty-eight hours to construct an operational M68, not to mention all the missile emplacements and radar stations that needed to be put into place to defend against an air strike, and we've been working since the moment we hit dirt. You'll have the big gun by nightfall, I can promise that."

Scorth grunted again, accepting the colonel's explanation. Scorth knew as well as anyone the truth in what Whimmer was saying, but it was imperative that the M68 planetary magnapulse cannon under construction come online as soon as possible.

Built primarily underground save for a rotating dome-turret and barrel, the M68 magnapulse cannon was a massive affair, capable of firing extremely-powerful bolts of plasma with an EMP effect large enough to shut down a small city. As soon as the Imperial 8th Field Army had hit dirt, their engineering corps had been hard at work setting up one of the powerful cannons in a mountain valley north of the enemy capital. Under the cover of jammers and other sensor-blocking equipment from both land and the Imperial fleet in orbit, the Special Weapons Division had been laboring for nearly thirty-five hours straight to construct a combat-effective M68 cannon. At first it had been a mere contingency, a basic step taken in occupying any enemy planet. With the appearance of the alien walker, however, it quickly became their principal hope of crippling the massive machine.

While the EMP effect would not outright destroy the walker, there was no avoiding the fact that it would be shut down for a lengthy amount of time; time that could be used to launch an all-out assault to destroy it and reclaim the lost ground. Once the alien walker was destroyed, the Imperials would have a chance to recover the momentum they had lost.

It was far from fool-proof, but it was their best chance.

"Begin the muster of the reserve forces," Scorth said. "All echelon commanders currently engaged are to seize their current objectives if possible before assuming a defensive position. All further offensive actions beyond those current objectives are to be suspended until Operation Verpine goes into effect."

"Understood, sir," came the immediate reply. "Any further orders?"

Scorth glanced over at Colonel Whimmer and received a nod in return. "Send all echelon commanders the updated timetable for Verpine, and call a holo-meeting of legion commanders. We'll only get one shot at this, people; we need to get it right."

000

FCP Alpha

Eastern District, Emerald Haven  
>1409 hours, March 31st, 2593 (UNSC military calendar)<p>

The battlefield was quiet.

Too quiet.

Major General Luke Harth stood in the upper-story window of a now shelled-out shopping mall near the Perrel River and examined the battlefield through a pair of macrobinoculars. Several stories below, in the 43rd Marine Division's Forward Command Post, were a plethora of high-tech holoscreens and video feeds that could show him the same thing he was seeing now, but Harth was old-school to the core. Recon feeds from UAVs and satellites were fine, but nothing beat personal observation when it came to getting an idea of what was happening on the battlefield.

And now, the battlefield was quiet.

It was an unnerving sensation, really, Harth thought as he lowered the binoculars. After nearly a day and a half of straight fighting, it appeared that the Imperial assault had lost its steam. All over the UNSC positions in the Eastern District, reports were filtering in that the Imperials were not pressing forward any further, seemingly content to sit on their captured territory but most likely dissuaded by the arrival of the Sangheili reinforcements. Along with their massive Scarab walker, nearly fifteen hundred Sangheili warriors had arrived, heavily bolstering the flagging, weary UNSC troopers that were battling to hang on in the face of the Imperial tide. The once-omnipresent din of war had declined to the occasional rattle of a machine gun or screech of a laser cannon. The skies overhead were clear, neither side willing to risk their remaining aerial assets in a scrap over the SAM and AA-filled city.

It was almost peaceful.

And that was what set Harth's nerves on edge.

Luke Harth was a seasoned general, having cut his teeth on commands during the Pacification War and the following insurrections. He had led enough commands through enough battles to know that a lull in a battle always signified one of two things; preparation for retreat, or preparation for assault. And seeing as at last word the Imperial Navy still owned the space above New Arcadia, retreat seemed to be a bit of a ridiculous option.

And so, Harth had started the Allied defensive ball rolling on the premise that a major Imperial attack was waiting in the wings, and that they had best be ready when it came. Harth and Pershing had used the lull to rush badly-needed supplies and reinforcements to trouble spots in the outskirts, and to coordinate with the splintered Allied forces to try and reform a solid, established defensive line.

Harth just hoped they would be prepared when the inevitable assault came. Every minute that passed without any further Imperial activity seemed to merely add to the massive weight hanging in the air, ready to crash at any moment.

"Sir?"

Harth turned, tucking his binoculars back into a pouch on his BDUs to see a young Marine, the captain in charge of his security detail, looking at him with a concerned expression.

"You've been at this window for two minutes now, sir," the captain said, his tone serious. "If you wish to continue your observation, I suggest we change positions."

"We're two miles back from the front lines, captain," Harth growled irritably. "I would tend to think the risk from any snipers is negligible, to say the least." He knew the captain was only following protocol, but he found the need for a bodyguard an annoying hindrance. He was still a Marine, after all, two stars or no, and he bloody well knew how to take care of himself.

The captain's expression didn't change. "That may well be, sir," he said, careful to keep his tone neutral, "but basic security measures cannot be ignored. Please, if you wish to continue your observation, we will escort you to a different window."

Harth was about to reply when his earpiece buzzed with static, followed by the voice of a communications officer from the FCP three stories below: "FCP to Bluejay, Bluejay, do you copy?"

Harth immediately stepped back from the window. "This is Bluejay, I copy," he growled, annoyed at his assigned codename. "What, exactly, is so damned important?"

"We've got Blackjack on the horn downstairs, sir," came the reply. "He wants a sitrep."

"Got it," Harth said. 'Blackjack' was General Pershing's codename, homage to the famed General John 'Blackjack' Pershing of the twentieth century. "I'll be in shortly."

Turning to face his security detail, he announced, "Change of plans, boys. The old man wants an update; we're heading back downstairs."

The Marines, of course, accepted the new orders without pretense, immediately forming up into an escort position as Harth made his way down the stairs to the first sublevel of the shopping mall. Ordinarily, such a trip would be made by elevator or escalator, but all power to the building was either out or devoted to the running of the FCP, forcing the Marines to make the descent the old-fashioned way.

The FCP was set up in what used to be a large storeroom near the first sublevel parking garage of the mall. Whereas before it had housed janitorial supplies, now it was packed to the prim with generators and electronics, wires crisscrossing the floor between holotables, tactical screens, and console stations.

Harth went straight to a large holoscreen against the far wall, displaying several maps of the planet and city. "Patch him through," he ordered, and a second later, the maps were shunted off to the side as a box containing Pershing's head and shoulders materialized.

"Sir," Harth said with a small nod. "There's been no further movement from the Imperials. They're definitely getting ready for something big."

"That's what I was afraid of," Pershing sighed, his voice weary. Harth's brow furrowed, noticing the bags under Pershing's bloodshot eyes, and wondering if he sounded and looked the same way. Neither of them had slept a wink in the past few days.

Any and all concerns about his own personal health were banished from mind, however, as Pershing continued, "I've been calling around for the past hours, seeing what reports I can get from around the planet." He shook his head. "It's not going well, Luke."

Harth frowned. "Last I heard, Ellison was still holding strong in Kainsdell-"

"Kainsdell fell three hours ago," Pershing said. "The Colonial Guard units nearby just weren't properly equipped or trained to deal with such an invasion. Ellison and what's left of his men are retreating to see if they can regroup with Landrey at Marctown."

Harth blinked. "Oh." The word was an understatement; Kainsdell, located several dozen miles to the north of Emerald Haven, was situated at a vital crossroads in the inter-continental highway system. With it in Imperial hands, the enemy could now move troops with impunity down to the Illerean subcontinent from the north, opening up another front in the battle.

And goodness knew another front was the last thing the beleaguered Allied forces needed right now.

"Same story across the rest of the planet?" Harth asked, steeling himself for the worst.

Pershing looked down, as if ticking off his fingers as he rattled off names. "Ableton, New Cheshire, and Westfork, all fallen in the past few hours. We've got troops stranded in remote towns and villages, trying to link up, but our communications are so shot up they can't tell where the hell they or anyone else is. The Imperials may be taking a coffee break here, but they've stepped it up a level everywhere else."

"Isn't General Darren supposed to have a fallback position past the Amos River-?" Harth began to ask.

"Darren's dead," Pershing interrupted. "Just outside of Dantshire, along with most of his staff."

Harth winced, remembering from what few briefings he had managed to get over the past day that the small town of Dantshire to the northwest had become a major hotspot. Remembering General Alexander Darren, he couldn't help but smile. "Crazy old bastard. I always knew that man was going to go down fighting."

"He didn't," Pershing stated. "His field HQ got flattened by Imperial air support. Ain't nothing left but a damned big crater."

"Ah," Harth said. "Any good news?"

Pershing paused, as if thinking. "Campbell managed to drive off the assault on Aimeston," he finally came up with. "Said he was going to try and move his men to reinforce us to the north, but those hills are crawling with Imp artillery and his force is more Colonial Guard than actual soldiers, so I doubt he'll make it far."

"So, we're in this one alone," Harth surmised.

"Pretty much," Pershing sighed. "And if that's not bad enough, the Imps up in orbit are starting to pick apart our COMSAT system. We've been losing the odd feed all morning now, but it's really starting to pick up now."

Harth's eyes widened, alarmed. "Anything we can do about that?"

"Not unless the swabbies pull off a miracle up there," Pershing grunted, "and by the very few and very brief communiqués I'm getting from 'Captain Farley' or whatever her name is, they're not in a position to do much of anything other than act annoying."

"How long until we're running blind, then?" Harth asked.

"No way to tell for sure, Luke," Pershing said. "We've got enough stored topographical and terrain data that we can corroborate with UAV and recon flights for surveillance, and our communications can be shifted to hard land-based networks-provided the Imps don't take those out, too-but without the COMSATs, we'll be hard-pressed to coordinate planetary-wide operations effectively."

"Well, this just keeps getting better and better," Harth muttered.

"Tell me about it," Pershing grunted. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then turned to the side.

"I've got to go," he finally said when he turned back. "I authorized a transfer of a couple JDAMs from the air force base to Settleton's position, and now I've got North screaming bloody murder down my neck."

Harth grinned. "I understand, sir. Those Chair Force types can be prickly about their precious missiles."

Pershing managed a weary smile. "That's the truth. Alright, see if you can talk with Settleton some more, keep solidifying your defenses, but for now, no further orders."

"Semper Fi, sir," Harth said, snapping a salute.

"Hooah," Pershing replied, and the connection terminated.

000

UNSC Ticonderoga (DD-442)

High orbit, Durite, Psi Olympus System

1543 hours

"_How many?" _

"Approximately eight thousand, ma'am," Sarge said, hefting his holographic Thompson. "It's hard to get an accurate count since they're all split up, but that's a pretty close number."

"Eight thousand…" Captain Hannah Farley murmured in wonder, slumping back in her command chair.

It really shouldn't have been that much of a surprise, she mused to herself. After all; the ship was over three miles long.

But still, _eight thousand _men onboard? The number was mind-boggling.

_What are we going to do with eight thousand prisoners? _She thought to herself. Truly, it was a massive victory to have captured so many of the enemy, and could be quite the bargaining chip if they could force negotiation with the Imperial task force, but the sheer size of the entire concept was rather bewildering.

"Now, it appears that of those, most are simple crewmen. Only about two thousand of them are soldiers," Sarge said, "and of those, only about eight hundred are stormtroopers."

_Only two thousand,_ Hannah thought sarcastically, then frowned. "Stormtroopers?" she asked.

"Fellows in white," Sarge supplied, pulling up an image of an ivory-armored Imperial soldier over the holoscreen link. "That's what the ship's computer calls them, at least."

"Ah," Hannah said, looking down at her watch. "Who's their representative again?"

"Annoying bugger," Sarge said. "Agar Narth, he called himself. Colonel. Sez he's with Imperial Intelligence. If he's representative of their intelligence, then I daresay this war will be over quite quickly."

"Personal opinions aside," Hannah said, tugging on the sleeve cuffs of her uniform, "I believe we have a conversation scheduled."

"Of course, ma'am," Sarge said. "I'll just patch him through. Excuse me." The AI vanished from the screen, followed by a few seconds of static that Hannah used to hastily tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear and clear her throat.

The static cleared as Sarge worked with Ramirez to establish a connection with the unfamiliar Imperial communications suite, generating the image of a middle-aged, rather corpulent man with thinning hair dressed in a dark grey uniform with multicolored bars on the chest and a grey cap. He seemed to start at the sight of her, and Hannah used his brief moment of surprise to speak first, thereby gaining the upper hand in the upcoming conversation.

"Colonel Narth," she said, injecting into her voice as much authority as she could muster, and was pleased to see the Imperial jump a little. "I am Captain Hannah Farley of United Nations Space Command. As of now, your ship is under our control, and you have been summoned to discuss the accordance of your crew with our terms."

Narth seemed to gather himself before he spoke. "I am well aware of the present situation of myself and my crew, captain," he said. His voice was slow and almost lethargic, and carried a tone of assumed superiority that grated Hannah's nerves. "You would do well to not presume to lecture us on your lucky victory-"

"And you would do well, _colonel_," Hannah said with a voice that practically oozed her dislike of the man, drawing out the word in an attempt to cram as much loathing as possible into the syllables, "to remember that our _lucky victory_ has put us in complete control of your entire warship. Unless you wish to receive a one-way ticket to vacuum, I suggest that you keep your arrogance in check."

Narth blinked. "Very well," he said, "I applaud your skilled takeover of our vessel. I would not dare to impugn upon on your good graces." The sarcasm practically dripped from his every word, and it took all of Hannah's determination not to order Sarge to vent the ship's atmosphere.

"Now," she said, "moving on to more pertinent matters; I am informed that you still command some six thousand crewmen, and two thousand combatants. Is that correct?"

Once again, Narth took his time in answering, and Hannah felt her impatience begin to fuel her anger. "That is roughly accurate, yes," he finally said. "Of course, the exact number is somewhat debated due to the amount of men your commandos killed during the battle-"

"Irrelevant," Hannah interrupted. "Right now, my only concern is keeping as many people alive as possible. You are to deliver the message to your crew that they are to lay down their arms and surrender, or our AI will deliver it for you. They are to then move to the portside launch bay, where they will await further transportation. If they cooperate peacefully, none of them will be harmed."

Narth frowned. "How do we know that you will keep your word?"

"As a member of the UNSC military, I and my men are bound by the Geneva Conventions of 1949 and the Alexandria Conferences of 2364. As long as your men surrender peaceably and cooperate without complaint, they will not be harmed, and will be afforded all due rights of prisoners of war," Hannah replied immediately. "The doors to the assigned hangar will be opened, allowing any man that wishes to surrender to do so without reprisal from comrades. In one standard hour from now, the doors will be closed and all decisions made final. Goodbye." With a wave, she signaled Sarge to cut the feed.

As the screen dissolved into static, Gates' hologram appeared over the bridge holotank. "A bit abrupt, ma'am," he said, appearing to straighten his virtual campaign jacket.

"So sue me," Hannah replied, standing up from her chair to walk over to the viewport. The grey, rocky world of Durite loomed large there, hiding the rest of the system from view. "Has the _Cloak and Dagger _finished yet?" she asked. After the Allied ships had regrouped around the captured Imperial cruiser behind Durite, she had tasked their sole prowler with laying its remaining complement of HORNET mines to discreetly cover the most likely Imperial avenues of approach to their current position.

"Negative, ma'am," Gates replied. "At last report, they were moving to track eight-six with six mines left."

Hannah nodded. "Very well. Disperse the rest of the fleet to cover the expected avenues of approach." Turning to face the crew, she took a breath. "Everyone best get ready. We've got the Imperials' ace, and they're not going to let us keep it without a fight."

000 

Nylson Fields, Illerean subcontinent

Imperial Monolith Base

After a day made long by ominous inactivity, the final coming of night seemed a blessed relief for the impatient men that staffed the command post of Monolith base. General Scorth watched the minutes tick down with a sense of impatience that could only be likened to a child. Colonel Whimmer stood by him, hands clasped behind his back and the smug smile of a man who knew ultimate victory was at hand, and he was the one who had brought it about.

Scorth endured the man's arrogance. After the incredible job he had done getting the magnapulse cannon and its valley-full of defenses set up, the man deserved a little bit of ego-stroking.

"How long does the cannon take to recharge?" Scorth asked again, his tone impatient.

"After a burst as powerful as the one we'll be firing, about forty-five minutes to an hour," Whimmer responded smoothly, "depending on power constraints."

Scorth grunted, unimpressed. "That's a long window of vulnerability, colonel."

Whimmer felt a flash of irritation, shoved it down, and put on his best winning smile. "Trust me, general, we surrounded the M68 with enough concussion missile launchers to shoot down a Star Destroyer, and our radar pans cover all of the ground in that valley."

"For the sake of this operation, you had better be right," Scorth said as the final seconds ticked away. Nodding to the communications officer, he said, "Commence Operation Verpine."

000

Fort Briggs, Western District

Emerald Haven, Illerean Subcontinent

"…so if we place the QRF gunships here, and here," Pershing said, manipulating the controls of the holotable to bring two parking lots into view, one by a school and one by a library, "it'll give them a clear line of attack on any enemy armor advancing up the 18th and 27th Street causeways."

General Alan Northrop, 18th Air Wing, nodded, stroking his chin absently as he was prone to do when thinking. "Those positions will have to reinforced, then; our Sparrowhawks are sitting ducks on the ground, and we've only got two squadrons left to allocate. We'll need some troops."

"You'll get them," Pershing confirmed immediately.

"And I mean real troops," Northorp said, fixing his gaze on Pershing. "Not these wet-behind-the-ears Colonial Guard pushovers."

Pershing raised his hand. "Alright, North, real troops. But the Colonial Guard's put up a hell of a fight so far, all things considered."

"As much as I admire their spirit," Northorp retorted, "these are the last quick-response forces I've got to allocate; I'm sure you agree that they need hardened troops defending them-"

"Sir! Massive energy spike in Ram Valley!"

At the sound of the officer's urgent yell, both generals spun around. Ram Valley was just north of Emerald Haven, and any Imperial activity there would have serious ramifications for the defense of the city.

"What?" Pershing asked, rushing over to peer over the shoulder of the sensors officer, unable to make heads nor tails of the graphs and readings displayed on the man's computer screen.

"We're still trying to figure it out, sir," the man said, tapping keys rapidly. "Massive energy pulse, just came out of nowhere! EMP readings are off the charts!"

Pershing's eyes widened. "What the hell? Did the Imperials set off a nuke?"

Pershing turned around, preparing to order the launch of a UAV to figure out what had just happened.

And as he did so, he got to watch on live camera feed as a trio of electric-blue energy bolts came screaming down from the heavens to impact directly on the Scarab battle walker.

Pershing averted his eyes, expecting a massive explosion. When none came, however, he looked back.

The mighty Scarab had been brought to its knees, its armored underbelly almost brushing against the ground. White and blue bolts of electricity skittered across its hull as its running lights flickered and then went dark.

_EMP…_ Pershing managed to think dumbly.

Immediately, he knew that trying to contact the crew of the Scarab or any other Allied forces in the area would be a futile effort. While UNSC equipment was EMP-hardened, that didn't necessarily translate to EMP-proof, and from the looks of those blasts, they had been packing quite the electromagnetic punch.

No, they would need to focus on reaching those units that could still communicate and tell them to hold fast. Taking the Scarab out of commission, if only for a short while, had to be the precursor to the Imperial attack that had been building all day.

No sooner had he finished the thought then the cries began going up from across the war room:

"Sir! Imperial armor, moving in from the fields!"

"We've got major enemy movement across the Eastern outskirts!"

"Shit! There's thousands of them!"

"Contact Harth and Settleton!" Pershing roared. "They've got to keep the Imperials away from the Scarab! And North!"

"Sir!" Northorp snapped to.

Pershing looked at him. "You know what I'm going to say."

Northrop grinned. "Yes, sir. Don't you worry; we'll flatten the entire valley if we need to."

"Damn straight," Pershing growled. "Your Chair Force jocks better get this one done."

**A/N: Not as much action, I know, but I wanted to spend some time developing the larger strategic picture, as much of the previous chapters have been devoted solely to what was going on in Emerald Haven. There'll be a lot more fighting to come as the Battle for New Arcadia enters its final day.  
>Next chapter: Explosions!<strong>


	20. Rolling Thunder

Chapter XX

**A/N: To Apoc: I was wondering if someone would broach that issue. Remember, Pershing is an Army general; thus, him using the term 'hooah' was intended as a jab at Harth, who is a Marine.**

**Disclaimer: In Soviet Russia...I still don't own Halo and Star Wars. Also, I would like to give a special acknowledgement to Payne Harrison's book, "Thunder of Erebus" which provided much of the inspiration and information involved with the Wild Weasel unit, as well as the bomb run. I do not own that either.**

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

Bird Dog Flight, 32,000 feet above Illerean Subcontinent

2334 hours, March 31st, 2593

Six F-86C Goshawk fighters streaked through the night skies over Emerald Haven.

When seen from thirty-two thousand feet, the furious battle raging in the city below looked almost beautiful, mused Major Dale Driscoll, 23rd Fighter Squadron, 18th Air Wing. The multicolored tracers, lasers, and plasma bolts that streaked back and forth amidst the two sides were a light show that was breathtaking in its scope, as well as humbling in its nature. Men were dying down there, and yet, from up here, it seemed so…distant.

Driscoll shook his head. Now was not the time for philosophy. The war would be coming to the air any time now. And when it did, it would most assuredly not be beautiful.

"Bird Dog Flight, this is Bird Dog Lead," he said into his COM. "Report in."

"Bird Dog Two, in the green," came the response of his wingman, Lieutenant Lawrence Montgomery.

"Bird Dog Three, shipshape."

"Bird Dog Four, ready to go."

"Bird Dog Five, all systems nominal."

"Bird Dog Six, ready to rock."

Driscoll nodded his satisfaction. "Roger that, Bird Dogs," he said, the unfamiliar callsign almost getting stuck on his tongue. Normally, the 23rd Fighter Squadron carried the nickname "Skydevils", but their reporting name had been temporarily altered to match their objective nature for this mission.

Driscoll didn't like it; every time he said the word, it reminded him that he and his men were nothing more than decoys.

It was necessary, he supposed. Someone had to draw out the Imperial air defenses around their new super-cannon, clearing the skies for the low-flying Wild Weasel units and the strategic bombers following behind. To that end, three full squadrons of F-86Cs had been deployed, to approach Ram Valley from three separate points on the compass. Bird Dog Flight would be making the southern push.

As miffed as he was about the squadron's hasty re-designation, Driscoll couldn't help but feel confident about the upcoming mission. The UNSC Air Force pulled no punches when it came to the quality of the machines it employed, and the F-86C Goshawk was no exception.

To fill its role as a dogfighter, the Goshawk was built for speed and maneuverability. Its twin Mondl & Gore turbofan engines could deliver nearly fifty thousand pounds of force each, giving it a top speed of Mach 3.3 when in full "supercruise" mode and unarmed. Simply put, it was one of the fastest things in the sky.

And if raw speed wasn't enough in a dogfight, the Goshawk's thrust-vectoring engine nozzles and angular, dart-like frame gave it incredible maneuverability, capable of performing extremely high angle-of-attack maneuvers. Extremely departure-resistant, it could remain controllable even at extreme pilot inputs.

Finally, when the Goshawk was done dancing circles around its adversaries, it could take them out efficiently and ruthlessly with its vast array of missiles (carried in an underbelly compartment for stealth purposes) and M634 Vulcan 20mm cannon.

All of that firepower was brought to the pilot's fingertips through the use of the sophisticated targeting and fire-control system incorporated into the pilot's helmet. The Retina Movement Recognition and Targeting System, or RMRTS, was a small monocle mounted on the pilot's crash helmet above their dominant eye. It utilized horizontal and vertical-scrolling lasers that tracked the movement of the pilot's eyes in real-time, then used that information combined with the fighter's radar display to calculate what the pilot's eyes were tracking. It sent that data to the fighter's targeting computer, which developed a firing solution and displayed it on the fighter's HUD.

So, in basic terms, all Driscoll had to do was look at a particularly annoying enemy aircraft, and a targeting solution would be automatically developed within the blink of an eye, leaving him to simply push the button.

Driscoll had already achieved two kills thusfar in the Battle for New Arcadia using the RMRTS, duels with the Imperial subfighters over Emerald Haven. Tonight, he told himself, he was going to make ace. If he did so, he would, to the best of his knowledge, be the first UNSC Air Force ace since the Pacification War.

Driscoll's COM crackled, breaking into the tone of "Bonaparte", the air controller quarterbacking the mission from a C709E electronic warfare Longsword circling high above. "Bird Dog Flight, this is Bonaparte; confirm status."

"Bird Dog Lead here," Driscoll said. "Operational status confirmed; we're ready to play missile-fodder any time you like."

"That's the spirit," the controller replied. "As of now, Operation Rolling Thunder is in effect. Proceed to the designated coordinates and bag a few for me, will you?"

"Will do, Bonaparte," Driscoll confirmed, angling the control stick. The delightfully-responsive Goshawk responded immediately to the course-correction, and a quick scan of his radar and a brief visual scan confirmed the rest of his flight re-forming behind him. "Bird Dog out."

"Good hunting," Bonaparte replied, and then the channel went silent.

Driscoll switched to the squadron frequency again. "Alright, boys and girls, you heard the man. Time to go play."

000

Wild Weasel Flight

10,000 feet above Illerean Subcontinent

Four F-86G "Wild Weasel" Kittyhawks streaked through the night skies over the jungle mountain slopes of the Illerean subcontinent.

Piloting was Captain Veronica Hayes, callsign "Ringtail", in accordance with Wild Weasel jargon. Her eyes flashed over the nighttime sky, always searching for any enemy fighters that might have evaded their radar by flying low over the jungle canopy.

Behind her, the three other F-86Gs of their Wild Weasel squadron were spread out, waiting to receive the go. The Weasels' mission was to clear a path for the C822 Shortsword strategic bombers following behind through the gauntlet of long-range Imperial concussion-missile radars that UAV and satellite data had shown bristling along both sides of Ram Valley. If the Weasels could knock out the critical target acquisition antenna-known as the "Grill Pan" in Weasel language-through which all of the Imperial radar data was routed, then the concussion missiles would be off the boards.

It would be nearly impossible to knock out all of the Grill Pans for the entire valley, but luckily, they didn't need to. As long as they just eliminated the westernmost Pan, then the entry point for the Shortswords would be clear, and they could ascend to a safe elevation after carrying out their mission.

The go order had better come soon, Hayes thought to herself with a glance at her fuel tanks. The Weasels had come expecting a long wait while all the different aspects of Operation Rolling Thunder fell into place, and had thus come with internal and conformational-external FAST-pack fuel tanks, but at the rate things were going, those would be nearly dry by the time they returned to Dielson AFB.

"Anything yet, Bear?" she asked, using the traditional Weasel name for the F-86G's backseat weapons officer.

"Negative, ma'am," replied Lieutenant Hale Cobbelson, his gravelly voice as calm as always. "Keep the holding pattern until-wait…" There was a deep-throated chuckle, and then Cobbelson said, "We've got a 'go.'"

Hayes grinned. "Alright, Bear, here we go. We're clearing a path for Scatterplot Flight; let's hope we don't have to punch out at the other end."

"Roger that, ma'am," Cobbelson replied. "I'm getting confirmation from the rest of the flight."

Hayes punched the afterburner, her restraints slamming into her chest as the Kittyhawk accelerated. Wild Weasel flight was on its way.

The jungle canopy flashed by in a blur as the entrance to Ram Valley loomed in front of them, the gaping void between Mounts Pinnacle and Magnificent beckoning like the maw of some primordial beast. As soon as they passed over that threshold, they would be flying through enemy airspace.

Hayes nudged the stick forward, and the Kittyhawk responded, bleeding off elevation. In order to get close enough to knock out the Imperial Grill Pans, they would have to fly under the airspace that was "painted" by the beams.

Which meant flying lower and faster than sanity permitted.

000

Bonaparte Flight

60,000 feet above Illerean subcontinent

A single C709E electronic warfare Longsword cut through the night sky high above the Illerean subcontinent, escorted by two F-86D high-altitude Screechhawk interceptors.

Lieutenant Gavin Colmes, known to the men and women of Operation Rolling Thunder as "Bonaparte" was so tired he could hardly see straight. The 18th Air Wing had only three operational C709Es at the time of the invasion, one of which had since gone down in flames after meeting an Imperial missile. That meant that for the past days, the remaining two had been in the air almost constantly in response to Command's constant need for information. And as the chief Electronic Warfare Officer onboard this C709E, he was required to be on station every hour of every mission.

Suffice to say, it had been a long haul thus far.

Colmes drained the last of his current cup of coffee, setting the Styrofoam cup back down on the table. As he did so, the Longsword banked, and the cup toppled off onto the floor where it rolled to join a half-dozen of its brethren.

Utilizing the brief rush of caffeine to its utmost, Colmes returned his attention to the screen of his AN/APR-86 Radar Homing and Warning System (RHAWS). He had been tracking an airborne India-band (the frequency on which the Imperial subfighters transmitted)-but the emission was intermittent, mixed with ground clutter from the mountains.

Operation Rolling Thunder had been initiated nearly a minute ago; by now, the Wild Weasel unit would be nearly into the valley. If the F-86Cs couldn't draw out the Imperial subfighters, then the Weasels would be butchered.

And then, the radar swept around again, and a solid, clear tone rang through Colmes' headsets. At the same time, a collection of bright white dots appeared on his radar screen, heading to intercept the blue triangles of the F-86Cs.

Colmes allowed himself a smile. Bingo.

Activating his COM, he said, "Bird Dog Flight, we have positive ID on six bogeys at zero-three-nine, range eighty-six kilometers, hanging out at about two-six angels. Probable Imperial subfighters, I say again, probable Imperial fighters inbound. Splash 'em."

000

Bird Dog Flight

12,000 feet

"…I say again, probable Imperial fighters inbound. Splash 'em."

"Roger that, Bonaparte," Driscoll said, turning his Goshawk onto the assigned vector. "Bird Dog Flight; combat spread."

"Roger," came the replies, and the six Goshawks spread apart, putting a half-mile of distance between each jet. Driscoll activated his targeting system, the F-86C's powerful AN/AGP-87 radar coming to life. As soon as he did so, and a radar feed was returned to his aircraft, the Imperial ships appeared on his radar screen. Yellow boxes appeared on his HUD in the area of each fighter, signifying their location.

Once he had activated his radar, or "gone bright" as the saying went, the Imperial subfighters would be able to track him easier, but for the moment, the Goshawks had the advantage. The Imperial subfighters were equipped only with lasers; deadly at close range, but not very effective at distances more than twenty kilometers. The Goshawks, on the other hand, were equipped with beyond-visual-range (BVR) weaponry in the form of their AIM-240 MRAAM "Seeker" missiles, which had an effective range of nearly one hundred and thirty five kilometers. The Imperial subfighters were well within that.

Driscoll nudged his stick forwards, decreasing his altitude slightly to gain a favorable angle of attack on the incoming subfighters. His radar showed the Imperials closing fast, having learned from experience the deadly effectiveness of the UNSC's BVR weapons. They were climbing, from their current elevation of eight thousand feet up to match the Bird Dogs, who had decreased their altitude from before and were cruising at twelve thousand. Some were also juking and rolling, knowing that they were illuminated by the UNSC radars and preemptively seeking to disrupt a possible lock.

"Bird Dogs, engage at will," Driscoll said.

Immediately, the flight split off. Driscoll angled to the left, Lieutenant Montgomery staying on his wing.

"I'll take Bogey One," Driscoll said.

"Acknolwedged," Montgomery replied, his voice cool and clipped.

"Seeker," Driscoll said, and the voice-activated armament system automatically engaged, readying one of the four AIM-240s stowed in his Goshawk's underbelly compartment. The words "_MRAAM armed_" flashed across the screen, and Driscoll focused his gaze on the foremost Imperial subfighter. The RMRTS monocle immediately targeted that bogey, the yellow box around it turning to a flashing red and a steady beeping tone in Driscoll's ears signifying that a radar lock had been achieved. Driscoll blinked twice, which confirmed the lock and would allow him to look elsewhere without the RMTRS losing its lock on his target. A quick glance around showed the Bird Dogs all fanning out to engage their own targets, which had closed the gap to nearly forty-five kilometers.

Close enough for his purposes.

"Fox Three," Driscoll said, giving the formal launch code for an MRAAM-class missile. A second later, his thumb pressed the munitions button located on the tip of the control stick.

The doors to the Goshawk's munitions bay sprung open, allowing the dart-like AIM-240 to drop out. The missile's powerful M887 rocket engine roared to life, a beacon of flame against the darkness that accelerated it past the speed of sound almost instantaneously. Guided by the Goshawk's powerful AN/AGP-87 radar, its onboard computer dialed into the radar signature of the lead Imperial subfighter, firing its maneuvering jets appropriately to adjust for the subfighter's movements.

The AIM-240 streaked across the forty-five kilometers separating the two flights faster than one could blink, its white smoke contrail neatly intersecting the leading subfighter. A massive orange-gold explosion smeared across the night sky, debris raining down on the mountains below.

"Good kill, Bird Dog Lead," Bonaparte said.

Driscoll allowed himself a victorious grin. Two more to go.

As if Driscoll's attack had been the signal, the COM was suddenly flooded with the cries of pilots: "Fox Three! Fox Three!"

A volley of missiles etched their smoky contrails across the night sky as the Imperial subfighters broke and scattered, throwing themselves into extreme evasive maneuvers to avoid the deadly darts.

Three were successful, utilizing high-g turns and rolls to break the radar lock and send the missile spiraling off uselessly into the dark. Two were not, and another pair of conflagrations marred the blackness.

Three down, three to go, with no losses of their own, Driscoll thought as the airwaves burst into celebratory chatter.

He was about to feed more power to his engines and attempt to engage again, but the remaining subfighters abruptly split off in different directions, diving for the safety of the jungle canopy where ground clutter would limit the effectiveness of the radar-guided AIM-240s.

"Ha! Look at 'em, running scared," declared Flight Officer Valasquez, Bird Dog Four.

Driscoll frowned. Something about the Imperials' retreat struck him as off. If they were truly withdrawing, they would likely have simply turned and high-tailed, not dove for the canopy.

It was almost like they were planning on re-engaging…

000

Bonaparte Flight

60,000 feet

Colmes weariness from just minutes before had evaporated in the face of action that had finally materialized. In the past few minutes, Bird Dog, Dachshund, and Mongoose Flights had all made contact with Imperial CAP around Ram Valley, drawing out the Imperial fighters and hopefully clearing the way for the Wild Weasels.

The dogfights had been going well, thus far, a total of eight Imperial subfighters bagged at the cost of only one Goshawk from Mongoose Flight.

He should be elated.

Instead, he was nervous.

UAV recon flights had placed the total Imperial fighter strength around Ram Valley at about thirty-six subfighters. So far, only eighteen of those had been confirmed to be engaged.

The question was obvious: where were the others hiding? The C709E's RHAWS was one of the most sophisticated radar suites ever developed by the UNSC, and it had yet to pick up half of the enemy strength. If they were staying to ambush the Wild Weasels, then neither they nor the Shortswords following behind would have a prayer of making it through that valley alive. But try as he might, no matter how many times he scoured the valley with all of the sensors at the Longsword's disposal, he still couldn't pick up nary a single blip.

It was a mystifying and terrifying situation. The F-86Gs of Wild Weasel flight were equipped only with air-to-ground munitions. Aside from their cannons, they would be helpless in the face of an ambush by Imperial aerial units.

Colmes had just begun to initiate another scan of the valley when another thought, just as terrifying, occurred to him.

Maybe the Imperials weren't trying to ambush the Wild Weasels. Maybe they were trying to ambush the F-86Cs of Bird Dog, Dachshund, and Mongoose Flights.

Swearing, Colmes fumbled with the RHAWS controls, typing in commands as the Longsword entered a long, banking turn. One of the weaknesses of using radar from such an altitude as they were at was that aircraft low to the ground were often mixed up with the regular ground clutter, becoming hard to distinguish. When one took into account the wave-disrupting nature of the irregular jungle canopy and mountainsides, the Imperials could be lurking at nap-of-the-earth levels and evade general radar scans. It would take a concentrated pulse to break out the outlines of any subfighters below four thousand feet from the ground clutter.

With trembling hands, Colmes redirected the RHAWS dish, cancelling the automated general pulse it had been sending out for the past few minutes and redirecting a heavy, direct wave towards the jungle canopy below Bird Dog Flight.

And twelve white dots flashed into existence on his radar screen.

000

Bird Dog Flight

Driscoll's eyes bulged as he realized what was happening, and had just begun to hail the squadron when Bonaparte beat him to it. "Contact, contact! Bird Dog Flight, we have enemy contacts all over the place, elevation four thousand feet and climbing! I count twelve, repeat, _twelve _Imperial subfighters inbound!"

The COM immediately burst into frenzied chatter, made even more so by the emerald green lasers that were suddenly piercing the dark. A burst of the superheated bolts streaked past Driscoll's port wing, and he swore, automatically rolling to starboard in compensation. "Bird Dogs, evade and climb!" he ordered. "Evade and climb!" If the Goshawks could get enough separation from their adversaries to allow the use of short-range heat-seeking missiles, then the odds would be somewhat better. If it came to knife-fighting, however, the Goshawks' 20mm cannons, while deadly enough in their own right, were simply outclassed by the deadly Imperial lasers.

Driscoll pulled back on the stick, feeling the airframe rumble as the thrust-vectoring engines and ailerons went to work, angling the jet upwards at nearly eighty degrees. By years of experience piloting the F-86C, he knew its limitations like the back of his hand, knew just how far he could push it before it would stall. He fed the turbofan engines even more power, and they responded, sending a delightful roar through the jet as it accelerated nearly vertical into the night sky.

The other Bird Dogs followed, desperately streaking up as they utilized their powerful Mondl & Gore turbofan engines to put distance between them and their pursuers.

Another Goshawk screamed past him, Valasquez's, the young pilot either panicking or incredibly confident, as he was dangerously close to stalling angle.

Driscoll had just opened his mouth to warn the man when a blinding green beam streaked directly into Velasquez's port engine.

The resulting explosion was blinding. Driscoll winced, averting his eyes as the engine flamed out in a spectacular fireball. The entire rear third of Valasquez's Goshawk was ripped off, and the smoking wreck began a pinwheeling plummet towards the earth.

_No…_

"Shit! Four's down, Four's down!" Valasquez's wingman yelled over the COM. Driscoll inverted his Goshawk, scanning desperately for a chute.

None appeared, and a Driscoll was forced to look away as a burst of green lasers shot past his canopy, returning his attention to his own survival.

Rage coursed through his veins; Valasquez had been little more than a kid, fresh out of the Air Force Academy when the invasion started. Far too young for this.

Screw this, Driscoll thought. He had fled long enough. It was time to fight. He tilted the stick, bringing his Goshawk around.

The subfighters had closed the distance, and were engaging the rest of his squadron, the two sides swirling around one another in a tight furball of laser fire and missile trails.

Singling out a subfighter that was late in arriving and angling towards the fray, Driscoll said, "Quarrel." Immediately, the words "SRHSM armed" flashed across the targeting computer as it readied one of his four AIM-18 Quarrel Short-Range Heat-Seeking Missiles. He flicked his gaze towards the subfighter, and the red flashing box was projected onto his HUD. Blinking twice to confirm the lock, Driscoll wasted no time in pressing the ordnance button.

At this close of a range, even if the Imperial had known of the impending danger, there would have been nowhere for him to go. The Quarrel arrowed towards its target, its proximity sensor activating as soon as it got close enough for the twelve-pound explosive charge packed into its nose to do its job.

The missile detonated in a spectacular fireball, ripping off one of the subfighter's angled wings from the pylon that connected it to the cockpit. The subfighter spun out of control, trailing smoke and flames as it plummeted down to the jungle below. "Good kill, good kill," Bonaparte said in his headphones.

Driscoll had no time to celebrate the victory. A warning tone pulsed in his helmet as his Goshawk's radar detected another Imperial fighter sliding into his cone of vulnerability. Driscoll jerked the stick to starboard, wrenching the F-86C into a violent barrel roll just as a volley of lasers sliced through the air he had occupied mere moments before.

Driscoll threw a glance back over his shoulder, the Goshawk's bubble canopy providing excellent three-hundred and sixty degree visibility. The subfighter was sticking with him, maneuvering from side to side as it attempted to line up another shot.

Glancing around for an escape route, Driscoll spotted a tight formation of fighters nearby, a subfighter pursued by a Goshawk, which was in turn being chased by an additional pair of Imperials. Throwing caution to the wind, he accelerated towards them, angling his Goshawk to the perfect angle.

He blew through the formation like a knife through butter, the tailing subfighters scattering to avoid a midair collision and in doing so screening him from his pursuer. Driscoll pulled the stick back to his knees, groaning under the force of seven g's as he hooked back around. Momentarily unable to speak due to the pressure, he reached out to manually arm an AIM-240. His eyes darted around the battlespace, straining to pick out his target amongst the chaos.

And there he was, the Imperial quartering to Driscoll's right as he attempted to relocate his quarry. Driscoll grinned as the RMRTS locked him up, and he pressed the firing button with no small amount of satisfaction.

It was apparent, however, that this pilot was no amateur. As soon as the Imperial's sensors warned him of the lock, he flipped around in a wickedly tight turn, cutting across at right angles to Driscoll's radar beam.

Driscoll swore; one of the few weaknesses of the AN/AGP-87 radar system was that, due to the pulse frequency of the waves and the manner in which they were directed, it sometimes failed to pick up objects moving at right angles to the beam, as the return signal would be broken up and refracted by the angle of impact. This Imperial must have learned that through previous experience, and knew just how to exploit it.

The AIM-240 streaked forwards nonetheless, curving slightly, and for a moment Driscoll entertained the fantasy that radar had indeed received a solid tone, but that was dashed as the missile lost its lock, shooting off harmlessly into the distance.

"No joy, Bird Dog Lead," Bonaparte reported.

Hissing in anger, Driscoll rolled to port, both to avoid the volley of lasers from another Imperial and to gain a better angle of attack on his target.

The subfighter pilot, however, having just narrowly evaded a missile, was in no mood to fancy his chances again. Instead of fleeing and giving Driscoll another chance to lock him up, the Imperial quickly turned and cut in towards Driscoll, bleeding the range between the two to just under five kilometers.

Driscoll swore, jerking the stick violently as he juked to the left to avoid a flurry of lasers. The enemy pilot was smart; he was forcing Driscoll into a close-quarters battle, where Driscoll's missiles would be rendered useless, and the subfighter's deadly lasers would be at their optimum range.

Driscoll wasn't too keen on his chances in such a battle. A burst of lasers flashed past his canopy, and in a split-second, he made his decision.

Jerking the stick back and throwing it to his right, he executed a sharp turn, making a break for open sky.

The Imperial caught on immediately, knowing that Driscoll was trying to open up room for his missiles and likewise knowing that he could not allow that to happen. Zooming in behind, the subfighter latched onto Driscoll's tail, sending burst after burst of lasers past his canopy.

Driscoll's heart raced as he juked left and right, throwing desperate glances over his shoulder as he attempted to shake his pursuer. Each volley was tracking closer and closer to his jet, and with bolts as powerful as those, it would only take one solid hit to ruin his day for good.

It was time for desperate measures.

One of the advantages of the thrust-vectoring engine nozzles on the F-86C was that they allowed for maneuvers that would normally be impossible for fixed-wing aircraft, maneuvers that had been developed since the first experimental thrust-vectoring jets were developed in the 21st century.

One of them was called the Pugachev's Cobra. Originally intended more as a theatrical move for use in air shows and before civilian crowds, it quickly found use during the Great War as a maneuver capable of reversing the chased-chaser relationship in an instant.

Driscoll took a deep breath, and then threw on full flaps, pulling back on the stick at the same time as he vectored the engine's thrust forty-five degrees up.

Driscoll struggled to remain in his seat from the sudden deceleration as the Goshawk went from nearly twelve hundred kilometers per hour to barely over two hundred in the space of seconds, flying forward completely vertical, nose in the air.

Driscoll would have paid good money to have seen the expression on the Imperial pilot's face as his prey suddenly reared up like a snake, slowing to a snail's pace. The subfighter was forced to roll to the side to avoid a collision, and in doing so, could not avoid streaking straight past his prey.

Driscoll grinned, redirecting the thrust vectors and returning the flaps to their normal positions. The Goshawk flopped back horizontal again, and he fed more power to the engines, streaking after the Imperial.

The enemy pilot wasn't going to give up that easily, however. He juked, rolled and used every trick in the book to keep Driscoll from gaining a lock, and Driscoll growled in frustration as the Imperial evaded a radar lock once again.

The Imperial dove forward, and Driscoll recognized the gambit as the opening move of a vertical scissors maneuver. Unwilling to bite, he pulled back on the stick, ascending to a higher altitude and then diving back down as the Imperial similarly rolled up. The two aircraft passed by each other so close that, had the Imperial's cockpit not been tinted, Driscoll felt relatively sure he could have seen the enemy's helmet.

The duel continued for another minute, the maneuvers becoming even more complex as the two fighters danced around each other in a fierce battle of wits and piloting aptitude. Driscoll had just recovered from the nauseating effects of a high-g Immelman turn when the Imperial pilot abruptly rolled out to the left, coming back around for a head-to-head pass.

Driscoll's eyes widened. At this close of a distance, there was no way he would be able to acquire a lock and fire in time, even with the RMRTS.

"Guns!" he practically shouted, and the targeting reticle for the M634 20mm cannon built into the fuselage came to life on the HUD, along with a small dot that tracked his target and showed where he needed to place the reticle in order to have sufficient lead.

In this case, however, it was unnecessary. The Imperial was coming almost directly at him; in essence, a game of chicken at twelve thousand feet.

The distance between them closed to five kilometers, and both opened fire at the same time.

A flurry of emerald green lasers pierced the blackness at the same time as Driscoll lined up the reticle and pressed the firing stud for a half-second burst. The bolts burned past him, missing just high and to the left, but still dazzling him with their brightness.

The Imperial was not as lucky.

The Goshawk's airframe rumbled as the mighty Vulcan cannon belched flame from its barrels, spitting out a deadly stream of tracers. The 20mm rounds intersected the Imperial's cockpit perfectly, tearing the metal apart and shredding the cockpit. A surgical strike. Trailing smoke, the subfighter dipped towards the jungle below.

"Good guns, Bird Dog Lead," Bonaparte said.

Driscoll watched as the subfighter plummeted to the earth. He was an ace now. Five kills, and the last by gun. He felt a brief pang of regret, of respect for an accomplished enemy pilot, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Another burst of lasers streaked past his canopy, and he swore, inverting his Goshawk and bringing it back around. He wasn't out of the woods yet.

000

Wild Weasel Flight

Ram Valley

Captain Veronica Hayes led her flight of F-86G Kittyhawks into the entrance of Ram Valley. They were practically skimming the tree tops, flying at barely two hundred and fifty feet to avoid enemy radar. Flying that low at such speeds as they were now clocking required lightning reflexes and nerves of steel, attributes that Wild Weasel pilots were hand-picked for during Academy training.

"Looks like we've got some Mayflies that are still hot," Cobbelson said from the backseat as he monitored his RHAWS instruments, referring to the Imperial shoulder-fired anti-air missiles that the UNSC pilots had termed, 'Mayflies'.

"That won't be a problem for us," Hayes said, trying her best to sound confident. "At this speed, no Imp'll be able to track us with a shoulder-fired weapon. You just keep on the Grill Pan target."

"Roger."

A ridge loomed up ahead at three hundred feet, forcing the Weasels to rise over it. As Hayes nudged her nose up and cleared the ridge, Cobbelson shouted, "Signal strength is rising on the Grill Pan! They're dialing us in; get us back to the deck!"

Hayes swore, throwing the Kittyhawk back down as soon as the terrain below allowed. "We're clear," Cobbelson said.

"How the hell did they find us?" Hayes asked as she bled off even more elevation. The massive dome of the Imperial superweapon was looming large in the background, but that wasn't their target.

"The Grill Pan's built on a hill," Cobbelson said. "It's got look-down capability on this entire plain if we pop above three hundred feet."

"Wonderful," Hayes growled. "Which dumbass forgot to mention that in the briefing?"

Her gripes were silenced, however, as Cobbelson suddenly yelled. "Shit! Two Mayflies, going hot! They're going after Leopard and Wolverine," he said, referring to the pilots of the two tailing Kittyhawks.

Hayes swore, risking a glance backwards just in time to see two F-86Gs streak upwards, throwing full power to their engines in an attempt to outclimb the limited Mayflies, but in doing so, exposing themselves to fire from the Imperial concussion batteries.

Missile fire suddenly filled the air, concussion armaments streaking up into the night sky. The two Kittyhawks twisted and turned in an attempt to evade the missiles, but there were so many of them.

Two spectacular explosions lit the night sky.

Leopard and Wolverine were gone.

"Son of a bitch," Hayes muttered. A pang of grief welled up in her heart, but she isolated it and brutally shoved it down into her emotional bottle.

She could deal with the loss after the mission. Now, she couldn't afford to let anything distract her. Lieutenant Wesley Smith was still on her wing; she couldn't let him down.

"Grill Pan signal is isolated," Cobbelson announced. "Jammer on."

This was the vital point of any Wild Weasel mission, where the backseater had to effectively guide the pilot.

"Alright," Cobbelson said. "Vector to two point three degrees starboard."

Hayes obeyed, feeling the slight correction in course as they continued to streak above the canopy, drawing ever closer to the Imperial Grill Pan. Her system was a water park of adrenaline as they screamed deeper into the enemy valley.

"Bring us up to two-seventy," Cobbelson ordered, and Hayes obeyed without hesitation. Cobbelson knew the limits of the Imperial radar better than her, and she trusted his judgment. "PRF is rising," he said, referring to Pulse Repetition Frequency, which the Weasels' HARM anti-radar missiles used to track their targets. Then, "Shit! Enemy missile launch, Mayfly class! It's got a lock on us!"

Hayes swore, her eyes flashing all over in search of the missile. She spotted it from its odd blue propulsion trial, streaking towards them from several miles away. She began to enter an evasive maneuver, but Cobbelson stopped her. "No!" he yelled. "The HARM needs time to lock on! If we go evasive now, I'll lose the signal!"

"Oh, you've got to be shitting me," Hayes said, returning her attention to the missile as she returned the Kittyhawk to its stable position.

The missile raced closer, bringing certain annihilation with it.

"PRF rising," Cobbelson said, his tone laced with stress as he fought to hurry up the process as much as he could.

The missile streaked closer. Hayes' heart hammered in her chest as her hands gripped the stick for all their worth, as if squeezing would give her safety.

"Almost…there…"

The missile was within a few miles of them now, a blindingly-fast dart speeding directly towards them.

Hayes was just about to take matters into her own hands when Cobbelson practically screeched in victory, "I've got tone! Solid lock, solid lock!"

"Then fire already!" Hayes roared back.

No sooner had the rumble of the HARM missile roaring off its rail reached her ears than she was going evasive. She executed a viciously-fast quarter roll, slamming both her and Cobbelson back into their restraints and ejecting a chaff canister. Warning tones squealed in her ears as she rose above the radar floor of the Imperial Grill Pan. Off to their right, Smith's backseater also fired, sending a second HARM towards the Grill Pan before turning.

For good measure, Hayes performed a vertical pop-up maneuver, just to shake any other locks that may have been training on her, before craning her neck to see a flash in the chaff cloud she'd left behind.

Hayes went limp with relief. A split-second later, a massive fireball erupted into the night sky where the Imperial Grill Pan had been located, and the screeching of her ears ceased as the Imperial missile launchers lost all radar data.

"Confirm Grill Pan destroyed," she said, her voice trembling.

"Confirmed," Cobbelson announced gleefully. "We nailed that son of a bitch."

"Roger that," she replied, executing an Immelman turn to head back out of the valley, Smith tucking in on her tail.

"Bonaparte, this is Ringtail," she said. "Imperial east-sector Grill Pan is down," she said. "Repeat, mission successful. Scatterplot Flight is clear to engage."

"Roger that, Ringtail," Bonaparte said. "Rolling in Strike Package Alpha."

000

Imperial Air Defense Center Bravo  
>Ram Valley<p>

"Sir! We've lost the connection with the western radar uplink!"

"Krif!" yelled Major Delman Bahn, the air defense coordinator for all of the Imperial presence in this accursed valley, slamming his fist down onto the counter. As he watched on the holoscreen, the two surviving enemy aircraft that had performed the sting arced and screamed away after having castrated his precious concussion launchers.

And unless he turned this around, his bejeweled career in the Imperial Army would go with them. His orders were simple; protect the magnapulse cannon by any means necessary. He would not give up just yet.

"What's the status on the subfighters?" he yelled. "Can we vector any in?"

"They're all engaged, sir," came the reply. "If we pull them back, then the enemy fighters could follow us back and-"

"I am well aware of what could happen, thank you very much," Bahn interrupted, grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead.

So, he thought, they've cleared the entry point for their heavy bombers. Smart…but not smart enough.

"Prepare the reserve concussion launchers," Bahn ordered.

"Yes, sir," came the eager response.

Bahn glanced at the holoscreen, at the darkened sky that could only hold more enemy bombers coming their way.

They wouldn't be getting away that easily.

000

Scatterplot Flight

Four C822 Shortsword strategic bombers roared through the night sky five hundred feet above the jungle canopy.

In the cockpit of the Shortsword designated Scatterplot Two, Captain Rainier Hutchins watched the return signals from the Shortsword's synthetic aperture radar as they were returned to the cathode-ray screens in the cockpit. The same signals were also sent to the avionics compartment, where the DSO (defensive systems officer) and bombardier sat.

Following the path of the Wild Weasels that had cleared the way, Scatterplot Flight was soaring low over the canopy, following a preprogrammed navigational course, which meant Captain Hutchins did not need to directly fly the aircraft.

Hutchins didn't like that. It gave him more time to worry.

The path was clear, he told himself over and over again. The Wild Weasels had done their job, and Bonaparte had confirmed that the Imperial Grill Pan had been knocked out. All he had to do was let the navigational system do its thing, drop the bombs and then climb up to sixty thousand feet to make good on their escape.

Simple enough in theory. But as he felt the Shortsword's speed bleed off as it prepared to enter Ram Valley, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was flying towards his own impending doom.

Actually, Hutchins thought bitterly, _he _didn't even get the comfort of knowing he was flying to his own doom. All he knew was that a computer was flying him to his doom.

000

Imperial Air Defense Center Bravo

"Sir, enemy bombers are inbound," reported the radar controller. "Four of them, looks like Fermions," he said, referring to the reporting name the Imperials had developed for the swept-wing heavy bombers utilized by the enemy.

Major Bahn nodded, watching as the blips on the radar drew closer. In the background, he could hear Colonel Whimmers screaming at him to protect the cannon, but he tuned it out. His plan had been set in motion, and for better or worse, he was going to follow it through.

And there! The enemy bombers screeched past a predetermined point near Beta Ridge, and Bahn yelled, "Uncover the reserve launchers now!"

"Yes, sir!" came the immediate reply, as the officer forwarded the order to activate the Air Defense Center's half-dozen mobile concussion-launcher hovercraft.

000

Scatterplot Flight

Scatterplot Lead raced past the saddle of Mounts Magnificent and Pinnacle, entering Ram Valley for the first time. As soon as the Shortsword's terrain-following navigation program picked up that it had crossed the threshold, it kicked in the bomb run. The Shortsword automatically ascended, pulling up to a thousand feet as the bomb-bay doors retracted. From this point, the lead Shortsword had only fifteen short miles to go between it and the recharging Imperial supercannon. After that, the four bombardiers and combined eighty-thousand pound bomb load of Scatterplot Flight would get to test the quality of the Imperial construction.

Flying in a staggered file formation, Scatterplot Flight closed in on the target, easily distinguishable by both the orange square denoted on the pilot's HUD, and the massive, irregular white dome protruding from the surrounding jungle. The valley was quiet up to this point, no missile contrails filling the air, a testament to a job well done by the Wild Weasel unit.

And then, in the rear electronics compartment of the bomber, the DSO's eyes widened as a flashing red light appeared on his warning panel. Nicknamed "The Light of Doom" by DSOs Air Force-wide, it was wired directly to his threat board, indicating that Imperial radar of some sort had them dialed in.

"Drop Zone just went hot!" the DSO yelled over the intercom to the pilot. "Repeat, the DZ just went hot. Missile launch, we have missile launches all over the freakin' place! Activating countermeasures!"

Up in the cockpit, Major Caroline Hoff, Scatterplot Lead, swore at the news. What the hell was this? The Wild Weasels were supposed to have cleared out any enemy triple-A. The Shortsword may be able to put quite the hurt on enemy ground forces, but compared to the small and nimble F-86s, it was about as graceful in the air as an elephant. Speed and altitude were its only innate protections, both of which had been stripped for this mission in order to ensure accurate targeting of the Imperial superweapon.

Back down in the electronics compartment, the DSO's fingers were hammering controls left and right. A view from the Shortsword's ventral camera showed the eerie blue contrails of two Imperial concussion missiles closing in fast. The DSO activated the Shortsword's APQ-878 suite of defense electronics jammers, which chucked out jamming signals in a complete circle around the bomber with the rough power equivalent to four hundred industrial-strength cook-all ovens all going at once. Confounded by the sudden wash of jamming and without the Grill Pan network to piggyback the signals, the controlling radar on the mobile Imperial concussion launchers lost the Shortsword's silhouette, sending one of the missiles spiraling off at a fantastic angle and sending the other into a terminal loop-the-loop.

The DSO had begun his victory dance when the APQ-878 abruptly shut down.

"What the-?" the DSO began, spinning back to his controls to figure out what had gone wrong.

It was a simple thing, really; a trivial malfunction in a circuit that he fixed in a matter of seconds. But in those few seconds, the Imperial radar reestablished the lock, catching the Shortsword with its proverbial pants down, and sending the looping concussion missile back on track on a path that intersected cleanly with the Shortsword's fuselage, and the twenty-thousand pound bomb load stored therein.

000

Scatterplot Two

How things had gone to hell in a handbasket in mere moments was something Captain Rainier Hutchins would reminisce on for the rest of his life.

At first, everything had been going fine; the Weasels had done their job, the Grill Pans were down, the valley was quiet, and Scatterplot Flight had a clear shot at their target. Then, the next thing he knew, his headphones were squawking alarm tones at him and missile trails were snaking everywhere. Whether these were backup batteries or the Weasels had missed a spot, he would never know, but whatever it was, he knew that the DSO had better make sure his gear was working.

The DSO had just kicked in the Shortsword's own jamming system when something caught Hutchins' eye; a small, blue dot heading towards Lead's bomber.

"Is that a…HOLY SHIT!"

There are few sights in the galaxy comparable to seeing a C822 with its entire fuel and ten-ton bomb load explode in a titanic fireball speeding along at nearly five hundred miles per hour. Wings snapped off like twigs in the face of the massive explosion, sending debris raining down as the flash of white light momentarily blinded him. Operating completely on reflex, Hutchins yanked the manual override stick and pumped the right rudder pedal for all it was worth, overriding the automated navigational flight control system. He then yanked on the stick, veering away to avoid the expanding mass of flame and debris in front of him, and the Shortsword rumbled as the decompression wave swept over it. "Shit!" he shouted over the intercom. "Lead is down!"

"Get us back on track," said the bombardier. "I'll have to line up the run now that you overrode the navigational control."

Easy for you to say, pal, thought Hutchins as he returned the Shortsword back on track and held it steady. You sit in a little boarded-up electronics compartment. Look outside and check out the remnants of that airburst, then see how keen you are on returning to your flight path.

In the electronics compartment, however, the bombardier was more than engrossed in his own duties as he brought the radar up to full power. A grin creased his face as he saw the massive dome of the Imperial superweapon appear on his screen. Punching the "formulate" button, a vertical line bisected by a single dot appeared on the screen. Known as the "death dot", it was essentially the crosshairs for the Shortsword's twenty-thousand pounds of high explosives.

With a punch of another button, the targeting computer was engaged, taking readings on altitude, heading, and speed, and automatically determined the optimum point of release.

"Missile lock!" shouted the DSO.

"Remain on course!" the bombardier replied, his breathing growing short and choppy despite the oxygen mask.

What sounded like an avalanche of popcorn reached his ears as the DSO fired off little packages of self-deploying, rapid-blooming chaff, hoping to confuse the Imperial missile with the multitude of new radar signals.

Up in the cockpit, Hutchins was reciting every prayer he knew, and making up some of his own as his fingers shook like leaves in a windstorm, clasped around the stick. If he screwed up their heading with evasive maneuvers, then the bombardier would have to re-compute the best targeting solution, by which time they would have already passed the target.

It was the DSO's game now. A sudden _thump _permeated the airframe, and the tail lifted up from the force of the explosion. For a moment, Hutchins thought that was it, the game was up, and they were going to be the next ones plowing up a trough in the valley floor. And then he glanced back and saw a flash in the chaff cloud.

"Missile took the chaff!" the DSO screamed triumphantly. "Drop those damn bombs and get us the hell out of here!"

"Steady!" the bombardier replied. "Steady…here we go…solid solution! Bombs away!"

There was series of mechanical whirring and clicking sounds as the locks holding the bombs in place in the weapons bay released, followed by an ominous whistling as ten two-thousand pound Mark-188 "bunker buster" bombs rained down on the Imperial magnapulse cannon.

000

Imperial Air Defense Center Bravo

Major Bahn was seated in the air defense center nearly three miles distant from the magnapulse cannon when the bombs struck.

The major was thrown out of his chair from the force of the earth-shaking explosion, instinctively rolling under a set of control panels for any modicum of protection they might afford. The blast of sound was so enormous that even from this distance, his ears were ringing afterwards. The entire air defense center shuddered under the shockwave, sending dust raining down from the ceiling. More than a few screens went blank with static, their instruments destroyed by flying debris.

After the initial shockwave had passed, Bahn fought his way back to his feet, staggering over to a nearby window, which had been completely shattered by the force of the decompression wave.

Where used to be a mighty symbol of Imperial power, the most advanced planetary directed-EMP weapon in the galaxy, there was now a massive, towering inferno, rising like a primordial demon from the crumbling depths of the gigantic dome. A jet-black cloud of ash and dust soared high into the air, spitting out huge chunks of debris in every direction. The conflagration was so bright that Bahn was forced to avert his eyes before its image was burned into his retinas, even as a blast of hot, acrid-tasting wind swept across his face.

"Sir," said one of his aides, coughing as he tried to clear his lungs of the dust, "Colonel Whimmers is on the com. He demands to speak with you, sir."

Still shocked from what he had witnessed, Bahn merely nodded.

As soon as he lifted the comlink up to his ear, the high-pitched, indignant tones of Colonel Whimmers assailed him. "Major Bahn, what in the name of the seven Corellian hells is going on over there? Is the cannon still in place?"

This was it, Bahn realized dumbly. If he even survived this battle, his career was over. After such a catastrophic failure, Whimmers would make sure that his career died a quiet, insignificant death, his rising star burned out before it reached the halfway point of its apex.

And, with another look at the still-towering fireball, he quietly cleared his throat. "Sir, you mentioned the seven Corellian hells?"

"I did," Whimmers replied, "but I don't see how that relates to a report of the condition of my cannon-"

Bahn looked out at the cataclysmic scene that used to hold their most powerful weapon. "They've just been opened, sir."


	21. On the Blood of our Sons

Chapter XXI

**A/N: Prepare for one helluva long author's note.**

**For those of you not particularly interested in my rambling, please feel free to skip ahead. However, to the rest of you, let me several things. **

**First: I am terribly sorry for the delay. School, skiing, computer troubles, and a myriad of other things in this great mass of confusion we call life have combined to rob me of almost all my time. Also, with the beast all high-school students know as Finals looming on the horizon, this will probably be the last update before winter break.**

**However, this delay has forced me to do some serious soul-searching about where I want to go with this story. My style of writing is spontaneous by nature. I'm not very good at setting established plans; a lot of my stories just kind of muck around with only a general "endgame" as guidance. And while that is great for allowing me to write whenever I wish, it also leads to poorly-developed subplots and contradictions between chapters, which often contribute to unfinished stories. That said, however, I do really want to and intend to finish this story, no matter how long it takes me. To that end, I have decided to draw up a chapter plan, which I have devoted some time to doing so that I have an idea ahead of time of what I want to accomplish in each chapter. With this as a guide, I hope to have more consistent updates in the future. And on that note, please know that I WILL NEVER ABANDON OR PUT A STORY ON HIATUS WITHOUT A POST EXPLAINING WHY. The amount of support I've received thus far has been simply stunning, and I couldn't in any good conscience leave you guys hanging.**

**Alright, phew, I think that's enough. To all those who've stuck around over this long wait, thank you. It's for you that I write. **

**Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Halo and Star Wars are the property of billionaires. The original content and characters of this story are the property of a broke teenager.**

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

Emerald Haven, Illerean Subcontinent, Eastern District

April 1st, 2593, 0534 hours

The All-Terrain Tactical Enforcer, Model 244B, was obsolete.

At least, that's what the critics said. There were always critics, especially in a military bureaucracy as vast and bloated as the Imperial Army, and those that favored the quick and quiet retirement of the venerable AT-TE were some of the loudest. It was old, they said, despite it having been in service only since the beginning of the Clone Wars. A relic of a previous era in warfare, when the aims of the Republic had been to merely keep the peace. Now, they said, when the Empire found itself consolidating control over the galaxy, a newer, more powerful walker was required to fill the role of heavy support in the Imperial Army.

For many, the All-Terrain Attack Transport had been that walker, a massive, hulking creation that was superior in almost every way to its dated, battered predecessor, a beautifully terrible instrument of war that promised to usher in the age of a new breed of Imperial war machines.

With the appearance of the AT-AT to swell the ranks of the Imperial armor, the AT-TE became relegated to a reserve position, something to either be tossed in ahead of the main advance as cannon fodder or brought up later to bolster the attack and sweep up any remaining resistance after its larger brethren had blasted through the bulk of the enemy defense.

It had been a hard transition for the crews of the Tactical Enforcers, men who had as much pride in their machines as they did in themselves. In such a short period of time, they had gone from the ones who led every major assault, crushing the opposition and clearing the path for their comrades, to the infuriating position of a "support battalion", brought in only to clean up the mess left behind by the new AT-ATs. A bitter rivalry had developed between the "old guard", who still ran and maintained the AT-TEs, and the new AT-AT pilots-many of which were non-clones-and looked down upon their predecessors with a sort of arrogant disdain. Likewise, the clones saw the AT-AT drivers as young hotshots with a false sense of superiority in both themselves and their machines.

That rivalry had never been allowed to go so far as to compromise operational efficiency within the Imperial Army, but suffice to say, no kind feelings were exchanged between the two.

Which was why, when the 8th Army's detachment of AT-ATs had been destroyed, leaving the clones of the 334th Armor Support Battalion and their twelve AT-TEs as the 8th's sole remaining heavy walkers, none among them had really mourned the loss. It was a chance for them to prove their worth, to show that they still had the ability to lead in a battle.

And as his AT-TE smashed through the low wall surrounding a hotel courtyard, Commander ST-36583, known affectionately by his subordinates as "Dire", wished the critics were there to see how his crew handled themselves.

As discovered earlier in the campaign, the AT-AT was not well suited for urban warfare. Its extremely tall, narrow profile that allowed it to target the enemy from great distances in open terrain was nigh impossible to turn around in tight city streets, and its firing range was severely restricted to the small arc in which the head was able to rotate.

The AT-TE, however, did not have that problem. It had six laser cannons spaced around its profile, giving it to acquire a target on any side, and the mass driver cannon mounted on top had a 360-degree rotation.

As soon as the walker smashed through the courtyard wall, Dire surveyed the panoramic cameras mounted on the machine's exterior, searching for any enemy defenses. Several enemy foot-mobiles scattered around the AT-TE's feet as the walker's side-mounted laser cannons opened up, raking the enemy soldiers with high-energy blasts.

A flash caught his eye, and he looked to see an enemy mounted slugthrower opening up from one of the hotel's lower windows. The bullets simply skipped off the AT-TE's thick metal, and Dire was about to order the gunner of the mass driver to fire when something struck him. The enemy machine gunners must know that they had not a snowball's chance on Tatooine of actually damaging the walker, and they wouldn't be so stupid as to give away their position for no benefit. Everything pointed to a diversion.

Another burst of movement caught his eye, and he tapped one of the screens on the control panel in front of him, zooming in on the starboard dorsal camera's view of the hotel. Sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed; an enemy anti-vehicle team was setting up in another window, one of them hoisting a rocket launcher.

"Gunner!" Dire barked. "Anti-personnel, sixth floor window, right side!"

"Roger," replied the turret gunner, Ratchet. "Firing."

There was a hum as the massive cannon warmed up, followed by a whirring thud that vibrated the entire walker as it fired. Keeping his eye on the screen, Dire grinned when he saw the window vanish in a burst of blue fire. The entire hotel shook from the force of the blast, dust and loose chunks of masonry crumbling away to reveal a gaping, burning hole where the enemy rocket team had been moments before.

"Area clear," Dire said. "Advance to objective."

There was an affirmative response from the driver, followed by a whirring as the massive walker's legs began to move again, crunching down on the pavement as it exited the hotel courtyard and stomped onto the massive roadway that would lead them towards the plaza where the enemy walker was crippled.

The roadway was a mess, covered with flipped-over cars and the burning wrecks of Imperial and enemy vehicles, both the drab, metallic, angular ones of the UNSC and the strange, oblong, extravagantly-colored creations of their alien allies. Ahead, the battle raging was clearly evident, marked by the roar of explosions and screech of laserfire.

Dire glanced over to a screen on the right side of his command console, which displayed an aerial view of the battlefield from an Imperial recon drone circling overhead. Their objective, the enemy walker, was designated by a red diamond, and the AT-TEs of the 334th Armored Support Battalion by green squares. A quick glance showed that of the twelve walkers that had begun the armored spearhead this morning, three were destroyed and two too heavily damaged to continue, leaving seven. All of the surviving AT-TEs were currently advancing from different roads towards the central plaza, as per their objectives.

"Driver," Dire called, "speed us up a little. We don't want to be late to the show now, do we?"

"Negative, sir," the driver replied, increasing the tempo of the walker's leg movements. The pace at which the armored beast lumbered down the street increased, and a hideous crunching sound came from outside as one of the machine's titanic legs came down on an enemy civilian vehicle, crushing the flimsy metal flat to the ground.

A metaphor for inevitable Imperial victory? Perhaps. But Dire had learned to never underestimate an enemy, and this enemy was so far putting up quite the fight.

000

Patrick A. Mellows Business Plaza

Emerald Haven, Eastern District

K'dar Sroam fired off a burst from his plasma repeater, the electric-blue bolts searing through the ivory armor of his target and dropping the Imperial to the ground. Before he could celebrate the kill, however, a flurry of return fire hit his shields, forcing him to drop back behind the ruined chassis of a Wraith tank that he was using for cover.

The battle for this plaza, where the Scarab had been stationed when the Imperial EMP weapon crippled it, had been raging all throughout the night, but had experienced a significant uptick in ferocity in the past few hours. The Imperial forces, desperate to capitalize on the removal of the Scarab, had been throwing everything they had at the embattled Allied positions. There wasn't so much as a battalion in the entire city that had the luxury of being held in reserve anymore; everything was being dedicated to stemming the Imperial tide.

What that unfortunately meant was that K'dar and the other odd hundred or so warriors who had been stationed around the Scarab when the attack came had been its only defense for the past few hours, along with a handful of Wraith tanks, one of which K'dar was currently using for shelter. With their human allies and fellow Sangheili all tied up in various parts of the city, they had fought valiantly to defend the Scarab, and the cratered ground of the plaza was littered with charred, white-armored corpses and the smoking wrecks of Imperial tanks.

But, K'dar was forced to realized as he hunkered behind the destroyed Wraith, waiting for the volume of fire to slacken so he could resume the fight, even the battle-hardened, experienced warriors of the N'tho Warrior Creche could only keep this pace up for so long. Nearly two dozen had fallen already, the vast majority of them young, idealistic Minor Domos, but with several of the more experienced Majors sprinkled in. All of them had taken a significant numbers of Imperials with them and died in honorable, befitting combat, but the fact remained that the Imperial army so far had the strength to support a battle of attrition. The acknowledgement left a bitter taste in his mouth, but as K'dar glanced up and down the thin line of Sangheili and Mgalekgolo that were defending the rear third of the plaza, he could tell that eventually, without support, they would be overrun.

The ground beneath K'dar's feet shuddered, and he looked up to see the two Lram Mgalekgolo brothers approaching, shields held up to absorb the waves of red lasers meeting them. Then they returned fire, their arm-mounted assault cannons carving a swathe fo destruction through an advancing Imperial platoon.

That gave K'dar the distraction he had so desperately needed, and he slipped out from behind the opposite side of the destroyed Wraith. Raising his plasma repeater, he caught an Imperial in his sights and squeezed off a rapid burst, cutting him down in an instant. Advancing forward, he shifted his aim rapidly to eliminate two more Imperials before he ducked into cover again.

Now, if they could just hold this line for a little while longer, then the Huragok working on the Scarab should have it operational, and they would be able to force the Imperials to retreat.

"Tanks!"

The cry went up from across the Sangheili line as a line of the sleek Imperial hovertanks entered the square, escorted by even more infantry. The Sangheili Wraiths turned and fired to confront this new threat, and several of the Imperial craft were immolated in sapphire fireballs, but for every one that was destroyed, another one floated forward. The Imperial tanks began to fire as well, emerald lasers exacting a deadly toll on the Wraiths.

One tank advanced ahead of its brethren, painted with red stripes along the side. Its top-mounted beam cannon opened fire on the Lram brothers, but the two Mgalekgolo were able to turtle behind their shields in time to remain unscathed. Nevertheless, the suppression of the two Mgalekgolo would allow the Imperial infantry to advance further. That could not be allowed.

A burst of anger fueling his limbs, K'dar sprang from cover, killing two Imperials with quick bursts from his plasma repeater and sending the rest scrambling for cover. Leaping over the small fountain he had been using for cover, he began to sprint as fast as his legs could carry him towards the enemy tank. A flicker of fear never crossed his mind; on the contrary, he felt a joyous exhilaration as the Imperial vehicle began to rotate towards him. This was battle; this was war! This was what his people lived for, and what they did better than any other. He would not shame himself by surrendering to as base an instinct as self-preservation.

Firing occasional bursts from his plasma repeater to keep the Imperial stormtroopers' heads down, he began to zigzag back and forth to throw off their aim. He kept his eyes on the Imperial tank the whole time, and as soon as a dot of emerald light began to collect at the tip of the tank's turret, he threw himself into a somersault.

With nary a second to spare, the deadly green laser swept narrowly over K'dar's head, close enough to drain his shields to half as he felt the ambient heat jump. The Imperial tank's turret took some time to recharge, so he knew that its laser cannons would be his next enemy. However, they were meant for targeting vehicles, so they likely wouldn't be accurate enough to effectively target a lone Sangheili.

At least, that was his hope. If he was wrong, it was likely he wouldn't live long enough to realize his mistake.

To throw off the tank's targeting even more, he kept up his zigzag pattern, unpredictably leaping from side to side as he closed the distance to fifty meters.

Yelling unintelligibly and swinging a vibroblades, a stormtrooper suddenly rose up in front of him from behind a pile of rubble. He was either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish to believe he could take on an Ultra Sangheili in hand-to-hand, but K'dar was more than welcome to oblige him.

Lacking the time to properly draw his energy sword, K'dar simply brought his plasma repeater up in a cross-body position to intercept the blow. The stormtrooper staggered as his momentum was abruptly checked mid-swing, and K'dar utilized his superior strength to then knock his foe's weapon aside and deliver a lightning-fast blow with the butt of his plasma repeater to his opponent's jaw.

The stormtrooper was sent flying backwards by the force of the hit, and K'dar looked up to find himself staring down the Imperial tank.

Dozens of years of combat experience kicked in, and K'dar dove to his right with all his strength.

A split-second later, the ground where he had been standing moments prior vanished in pillar of smoke and flame.

The concussive wave of the explosion stripped K'dar's shields immediately and tossed him an additional ten meters, where he landed with a bone-jarring crunch on the plaza ground amid a pelting by a hailstorm of dust and debris.

Groaning, K'dar forced himself back up to his hands and knees, his muscles screaming in protest. His vision swam before his eyes, and he slowly became aware of an annoying, insistent sound in the background.

In a few seconds, as the sound seemed to grow in volume, he recognized it as the pulsing alarm of his combat harness's shield generator, and that the sudden explosion had nearly deafened him.

As his hearing returned and his vision normalized, K'dar was able to rise to his knees and look around. The explosion had thrown him behind and to the left of the Imperial tank, which was now turning away from him back towards the battle lines, apparently thinking he was dead. Thanking the Forerunners for his shielding technology, K'dar shook his head to clear it and cast about for his plasma repeater.

He found half of it, lying shattered in the dust, blue spiderwebs of electricity flickering over the ruined weapon. The other half was nowhere to be found.

His plasma pistol was likewise gone, K'dar discovered as he reached for it only to brush a hand over air, apparently ripped off by the force of the explosion.

Taking a quick inventory, he found that he still had a pair of plasma grenades on his belt, as well as the one weapon a Sangheili warrior valued above all else.

K'dar's mandibles twitched in an approximation of a human grin as he reached for the hilt of his energy sword. It would have to do.

Staggering to his feet, he ducked as a pair of red lasers screeched over his head. A pair of stormtroopers had noticed his survival and were closing in, intent on finishing the job.

Noting his shields had yet to recharge, K'dar knew the odds were against him. He needed to distract them until his generator could reestablish his protective field.

Snatching his energy sword from his belt, he activated it, the twin blades of magnetically-contained plasma springing to life as he roared his challenge towards the two Imperials.

There would be few in the galaxy who can claim to not feel just a thrill of fear when confronted with the sight of an angry Sangheili wielding an energy sword. That said, the two stormtroopers could hardly be blamed for flinching.

However, it was to be their undoing.

The familiar tone of a recharging shield generator broke across K'dar's ears, and on his combat harness's visor, he saw his shield bar filling up. Seizing the opportunity, he sprinted forward, bounding towards the Imperials.

That shocked them out of their terrified stupor, and they resumed their fire, but now they were trying to hit a rapidly-moving target with full shields, and K'dar was able to close in quickly.

The first trooper, apparently trying to protect his comrade, stepped forward, holding his blaster rifle out crosswise to block K'dar's swing.

Almost contemptuously, K'dar flicked his wrist, sending the superheated blades flashing towards the trooper, bisecting his rifle and burying the sword deep into the trooper's chest. Ignoring the trooper's dying gurgles, K'dar mercilessly withdrew the blade and spun away towards the remaining trooper. A few bolts crashed into his shields, lowering them, but by then it was too late. K'dar drew back his arm and launched it forward with lightning speed, spearing the trooper through the chest.

K'dar wasted no time in celebrating his kills. Withdrawing his sword with a practiced ease, he sprinted past the crumpling bodies of his foes, bearing down on the Imperial tank from behind.

Nearly forty meters of open ground lay between him and the tank, so it was inevitable he would be spotted at some point. Still, at the rate he was moving and with the protection his shielding provided him, K'dar felt more than confident that he would make the sprint.

However, the Imperials were either better shots or more numerous than he had imagined, as by the time he had reached the halfway point laser bolts were practically filling the air around him, and his shields were declining at a precipitous rate.

The bulk of the fire was coming from a group of stormtroopers dug in behind a destroyed wall on his right flank. K'dar pounded up a pile of rubble and leaped as he reached the top, sailing into the air. Midflight, he twisted, snatching a plasma grenade off his belt, hitting the activation glyph and sidearming it with all his might towards the Imperial position.

He hit the ground running, not bothering to look back to see if he had hit the mark. However, the sudden blue flash behind him, followed by a significant drop in the amount of laserfire coming his way told him more than enough.

By now, he had closed the distance to the Imperial tank to nearly ten meters. Perhaps warned by its comrades, it had begun to turn around, intent on killing him once and for all.

It was too slow.

Steel cords of muscle contracted and released all throughout K'dar's body as he made one more leap, the vaunted strength of the Sangheili carrying him nearly four meters into the air _over _the tank. As the turret gunner tried valiantly to track him, K'dar lashed out with his sword, decapitating the gunner in a single neat motion even as he landed with a thud onto the top of the vehicle.

Wasting no time, K'dar drew his energy sword back and plunged its twin prongs through the thin armor on top of the tank, the two blades of ionized gas slowly boiling away the Imperial armor. Sawing the weapon back and forth to hurry the process, K'dar was gratified to see the metal slowly heat up to a brilliant orange as it melted away in the face of the intense heat.

As he cut away a small hole in the roof of the tank, a hatch to his left abruptly sprung open, and an Imperial in a dark uniform began to clamber out, holding a blaster pistol. Lacking the time to withdraw his sword, K'dar merely lashed out with a clenched left fist, connecting with the Imperial's chin. The man spun away, his neck cracking under the sudden torque, and he slumped over the side of the tank.

By then, K'dar's job was done. Retrieving his last plasma grenade, he activated it and dropped it through the small hole he had created. Ignoring the panicked screams of the vehicle's crew, he leaped off of the tank, rolling as he hit the ground to soften the blow as he began to sprint back to his own lines.

The explosion came a second later. Risking a glance over his shoulder, K'dar saw the tank shudder as the plasma grenade detonated inside. Its repulsorlifts destroyed, the massive vehicle dropped to the ground. Cracks appeared in the armor as secondary explosions began to shake the vehicle, molten plasma and metal spewing out of ever-growing fissures in the tank's hull.

Finally, the tank's reactor succumbed to the barrage of internal detonations. A massive explosion ripped through the vehicle's stern, sending debris flying as the conflagration consumed any trace of what had once been a formidable Imperial fighting machine.

The overpressure wave from the explosion struck a split-second later, reverberating through every bone in K'dar's body. He stumbled for a moment, catching himself as ruby lasers began to sear the air around him. Deactivating his sword, he focused all his energy on sprinting towards friendly lines as his combat harness began to warm him of his rapidly-depleting shields.

For a moment, K'dar wondered if he would make it back. As plasma and lasers flew back and forth around him, it occurred to him that these might be his last moments, that for all he had just accomplished, he would never live to see this exploit carved into his family's battle poem.

An angry snarl contorted K'dar's features at that thought. If he was going to day, he would do it with honor, not running away like some sort of terrified Unggoy; that would be a shame that would mar his family's honor for generations to come.

Casting his eyes about for a weapon, K'dar noticed an enemy laser rifle caught in the grip of a deceased stormtrooper who was buried under a pile of rubble. Not ideal, but it would have to do. Stooping down, K'dar snatched the weapon from the grasp of its former owner and hunkered down behind a short wall as he began to return fire.

The enemy blaster rifle was no substitute for his plasma repeater, K'dar decided, and it was a struggle for the massive Sangheili to effectively operate the comparatively diminutive weapon. Still, for now, it would have to do. Also, he decided as he cut down an advancing squad with a rapid burst of red lasers, there was a certain vicious pleasure inherent in turning an enemy's weapon against them.

A flash on his radar showed a squad of troopers approaching from his right side, attempting to flank him from around the wall he was using as cover. If they could keep him pinned down, he could be under fire from two different directions, and even the most experienced warrior could rarely survive such a scenario.

K'dar had just begun to turn to face the new threat when a pair of blazing green beams suddenly swept across the plaza, incinerating the approaching Imperials in a series of rapid explosions. When the beams vanished, so had the enemy squad, leaving behind only a blackened, smoking crater.

A ferocious grin crossed K'dar's face as he looked back to see the two Lram brothers lowering their arm cannons, the massive Mgalekgolo twins seeming to deter any further Imperial advances merely by the magnitude of their presence.

A single Sangheili stood by their side, wearing the scarlet combat harness of a Major Domo. K'dar recognized him immediately; it was H'rel Bamr, a veteran of the Pacification Wars and K'dar's right-hand Sangheili in the N'tho Creche.

"What a feat!" H'rel crowed as K'dar returned to the Sangheili line. "I thought you were doomed when you took off like that! Surely, this will be a deed sung about for generations."

"You flatter me, H'rel," K'dar replied as the two Sangheili clasped each others' forearms in an ancient gesture of respect and friendship. "But I thank you nonetheless. Now, what is the situation of the Scarab?"

The two Sangheili ducked as a barrage of lasers flew by overhead, and H'rel quickly sent a return burst of plasma towards the Imperial positions before turning back. "The Huragok are working on restoring power as soon as possible," he said, "but it will likely be several minutes still before power can be restored."

K'dar swore; in a battle that was as fluid as this one, minutes may as well have been hours. A quick glance out at the plaza confirmed that the Imperial advance was continuing unabated, and barely half a dozen Wraiths were still operational. If the Imperials staged another mass charge, it was unlikely that the Sangheili would be able to withstand it. Sure, they would take a massive amount of Imperials with them, but in the end, the result would be the same.

That was unacceptable. There had to be some way to turn the tables, to reverse the position they were in now. K'dar snarled as more Imperial lasers streaked by. To hold a line like this, to fight defensively, this was not the Sangheili way.

_We need to take the fight to them, _K'dar realized. The Imperials' wave-like tactics had thus far succeeded in pushing the Sangheili farther and father back, but had also resulted in a loss of overall cohesion. More and more it seemed as if the Imperials were acting on a platoon and squad basis, with no real overarching goal except to march to the end of the square and kill everything in their path.

With the right amount of force applied at the right moment, their advance could be stopped and their resolve shattered. But if the Sangheili were to attempt a breakout, they would have to do so soon, K'dar thought as he glanced up and down their line. Their numbers were ever-dwindling, and before too long they would be too few to mount an effective strike. Even a few Mgalekgolo pairs had fallen, their loss felt especially heavily by the hard-pressed Sangheili.

"H'rel," K'dar said, and the Major Domo ceased his fire, dropping back down. "Yes?"

"We're going to charge," K'dar said.

H'rel blinked twice, his mandibles hanging loose in astonishment. "Commander? Surely you jest, the-"

"I never jest about battle, H'rel," K'dar replied immediately, "you know that. If we remain here much longer, we shall be cornered and killed like _sandaka _rats. If we hit them hard, and hit them now, we might just have enough strength left to break their resolve."

There was a brief moment of silence-or at least, there _would _been a brief moment of silence were it not for the small matter of the war currently being waged around them-and then H'rel nodded. "I understand. I'll inform the troops."

"Contact the Wraith commanders," K'dar ordered. "I want them to cover our advance with a creeping barrage, walking across to the far end of the plaza."

"Understood," H'rel said.

As the Major Domo relayed his orders, K'dar went over his inventory. He didn't have much; the stolen Imperial blaster and an energy sword. A quick glance around his surroundings showed a dead Minor Domo leaned up against a crumbled wall a few meters away, his armor blackened and scarred. Hating the necessity of the act but unwilling to insult the dead warrior's honor by passing up such a gift, K'dar retrieved a handful of plasma grenades from the Sangheili's belt, as well as the two Type-25 Directed-Energy Rifles clasped in the warrior's limp hands.

"I will avenge your death with these," K'dar whispered, "I swear."

The corpse gave no response.

Turning, K'dar returned to where H'rel was crouched. "The word is out?" he asked.

H'rel nodded. "We are ready to move on your mark, commander."

"Good," K'dar said, checking the charge on his newly-acquired plasma rifles. Satisfied, he lowered them and activated his communications unit.

"All warriors," he said, "prepare to charge in three.

"Two…  
>"One…"<br>K'dar rose up from his crouch, leaping over the crumbling wall in front of him as his mandibles split in a ferocious howl. "FORWARD!"

A sudden cacophony of roars and battle-cries split the air as the ragged line of Sangheili and Mgalekgolo burst forth from their positions, racing across the plaza towards the oncoming Imperials. At the same time, the few remaining Wraith tanks began a concentrated barrage, their energy mortars arcing down and decimating entire squads, always staying ahead of the advancing aliens. Imperial tanks burst apart in balls of sapphire flame as the Sangheili raced ahead, seeking to capitalize on their newfound momentum.

K'dar sprinted forward as fast as his legs would carry him, H'rel pounding along by his side. He brought his plasma rifles up, firing forward towards the Imperial lines more for psychological effect than an actual expectation of accuracy. Likewise, the rest of the Sangheili warriors began to fire as they ran, keeping the Imperials pinned down as they closed the gap.

But the Imperials were no pushovers; their commanders recognized the charge for what it was, and tried desperately to keep their men in line. Ruby lasers began to fill the air, forcing K'dar to twist and turn, his shielding flaring up to save him from the deadly bolts. Several charging Sangheili fell, their shields overwhelmed by the lasers, but the majority charged onward, drawing ever-closer to the Imperials.

A spectacular tidal wave of sound erupted as the two sides finally clashed. Sangheili, drunk with battle-rage, roared with terrible glee as they lashed out with fist and sword, crushing skulls and slicing limbs. Mgalekgolo pairs trumpeted their arrival, sending masses of troopers flying with wide swipes of their massive shields or wasting entire squads with a blast from their assault cannons.

K'dar found himself charging directly at an Imperial mounted gun emplacement, whose operators were currently trying to swivel their weapon fast enough to keep up with his progress. A flurry of sapphire bolts suddenly killed the gunner, and K'dar briefly glanced back to nod his thanks to H'rel before diving into the midst of the enemy, plasma rifles blazing. He stitched a burst of bolts diagonally across the chest of a blue-armored Imperial whom he assumed to be the commander, sending the trooper flying backwards, his chestplate melted.

K'dar's shields pulsed a warning, and he backpedaled quickly. H'rel swept past him, plasma repeater spitting out deadly bursts as K'dar circled around to the side. He squeezed the triggers, cutting down a pair of troopers and then refocusing his aim to down a third.

"More Imperials, coming in!" H'rel warned, and K'dar turned to see nearly a dozen troopers rushing towards them, blaster rifles spitting out beams of deadly energy.

Snatching a plasma grenade from his belt, K'dar reared back and pitched the explosive with all his might. The glowing grenade sailed through the air, adhering to the right shoulder pauldron of one of the approaching stormtroopers. Panicking, the trooper attempted to pull the grenade off to find it hopelessly connected, and a blue-white explosion enveloped half of the squad, leaving behind a blackened crater scattered with melted bits of plastoid armor.

But the remaining troopers charged on, and K'dar's shields were taking consistent hits now. One bolt hit the plasma rifle clasped in his right hand, rendering the weapon useless.

"Swords!" he bellowed to H'rel, who roared his approval in response. Holstering their remaining weapons, they withdrew and activated their plasma swords, the quiet _snap-hiss _of the igniting weapons an ominous counterpoint to the din of the battle raging around them.

The Imperials hesitated briefly, debating whether or not charging the two sword-brandishing aliens was indeed conducive to their continued existence, and in doing so, surrendered the initiative.

K'dar and H'rel seized the opportunity, diving forwards into the midst of the bleach-armored troopers. Moving with blinding speed and sheer power, they wove an intricate, deadly dance, swords darting in and out to sever arms, legs, or even heads. K'dar swept his blade low, neatly removing the legs of one trooper and finishing him off with a vicious kick to the jaw that sent the man careening backwards with a broken spine while H'rel neatly speared another, pulling the body off of his blade and hurtling the corpse into another Imperial.

Within seconds, the conflict was finished, and the two Sangheili stood with heaving chests amid a pile of dismembered corpses. K'dar seized the brief reprieve to glance around.

What he saw filled him with pride.

Taken aback by the power and ferocity of the sudden attack, the Imperial forces were in disarray. More and more white-armored figures were falling back in a panicked retreat, casting aside their weapons as the gleeful Sangheili and Mgalekgolo cut them down by the dozen. Barely a handful of Imperial tanks remained, and they too were withdrawing, under heavy fire from the Sangheili Wraiths.

K'dar threw his head back, a triumphant laugh rolling forth from his throat. Hoisting his sword, flush with the elation of victory, he yelled, "Come! We shall drive them all the way to the fields!"

A roar of approval sounded from the Sangheili warriors as they continued their charge, sowing destruction amidst what was now becoming a rout.

One group of Sangheili had gotten ahead of the bulk of the advance, a group of young, idealistic Minor Domos eager to prove themselves in battle. K'dar was watching their progress with an approving eye when there was a sudden explosion of emerald fire that shook the entire plaza. When he had regained his balance, he looked back to see the entire group was gone, replaced with a smoking crater.

The Imperial retreat had suddenly ceased, the wild, undisciplined rout suddenly turning into a well-entrenched, established defense as the tables were turned on the advancing Sangheili, who suddenly found themselves trapped in salient in the Imperial line, besieged on all sides by Imperials toting heavy blaster rifles and repeating cannons.

And, emerging from a curtain of smoke at the far end of the plaza like demons from the gates of hell, seven Imperial walkers bristling with laser cannons stomped their way onto the battlefield.

A massive salvo of beryl flame erupted from the Imperial titans, their top-mounted cannons swiveling as one to fire on the Scarab. Gouts of flame burst open from the mighty walker's knee joints as armor plates blackened and peeled in the face of the onslaught.

And like a ferocious wild manx caught in the hunter's net, unable to retaliate, the Scarab fell.

"No…" K'dar whispered, rage welling up inside of him as he realized how he had been played. The entire thing had been a trap, and he had played right into the Imperial commander's hand. "No…"

"Commander!" It was H'rel, grasping his arm. "We have to retreat! It was a trap!"

K'dar didn't respond, merely staring slack-jawed at the sudden Imperial counterattack developing, seeing Sangheili fall, their shields battered down by blaster bolts from every angle.

This was a failure he would never live down.

"Commander!" H'rel yelled, wincing as a flurry of lasers from an Imperial walker tore apart one of their precious few remaining Wraith tanks, "we have to fall back! There are too many of them."

K'dar blinked, a wave of clarity suddenly washing over him. His rage subsided, replaced by a fulfilling calm, a resignation of what needed to be done. "Very well," he said. "Sound the retreat. Withdraw all forces back to the river; we cannot hold here."

"Yes, commander," H'rel said, relaying the orders and turning to run before making a quick about-face when he realized K'dar was not following him. "Commander?" he asked, a touch of alarm entering his voice as he saw the energy sword clasped tightly in K'dar's hand. "Commander, are you-?"

"Those walkers will butcher us if we try to retreat," K'dar said calmly. "You need a distraction. I will provide it."

"Commander, no!" H'rel said. "I'll order the Wraiths to concentrate their fire, or make a flanking move-"

"The Wraiths must be preserved, H'rel," K'dar said as he began to walk. "They are more important than I." He glanced around, seeing the surviving Sangheili begin to pull back. "You will make a good leader, H'rel," he said. "Bring the warriors to the river."

H'rel's face twisted in the agony of indecision, a moment caught between his love and his loyalty for his commander before his visage finally calmed. "I understand," he said. "But what shall I tell the Lram brothers?"

K'dar paused. The two Mgalekgolo had become separated from him during the battle, but they would view it as a personal failure if they did not protect him, as was their chartered duty. "Tell them that I would not have permit them to come, even had they been here. It was my decision alone that sprung this trap, and it shall be mine alone to redeem my honor."

H'rel nodded slowly, and the two Sangheili ducked as a bolt from an Imperial tank screeched overhead. "Our time grows short, H'rel," K'dar said. "I bid you a last farewell."

"Farewell, commander," H'rel replied, his voice quiet. "May the Forerunners guide you."

"And you as well, H'rel Bamr," K'dar said.

And with that, he turned and began to run.

It was not a frantic sprint as he had before, one fueled by excitement and passion. This run was a smooth, galloping pace, driven by a calm acceptance of his fate and a knowledge that by his actions, he would preserve the lives of his warriors. After such a disastrous charge, his honor as a commander would have been forever tarnished; with the completion of this final task, he could redeem himself, and save what remained of his warriors at the same time. A better fate could not be asked for.

And so, he ran, a single figure running steadily towards the massive Imperial war machine in front of him. Lasers struck the ground all around him, but he paid them no heed; they would not bar him from the successful completion of this last mission.

Fortunately, the N'tho's charge had significantly disrupted the Imperial lines so that he was able to find a small gap, enough for maybe a few men to slip through, but ample enough for a single Sangheili on an honor mission. Often stormtroopers arrived to stop him, but he cut them down without a second thought, his sword moving in practiced, perfect motions as he drew nearer to the leading Imperial walker.

By now, the walker itself had noticed him, and, obviously guessing his strategy, began to pivot to face him. But it was a clumsy, lumbering beast, its movements too slow to save it. He assumed that this was the leader of its group, because the others six walkers were angling in towards it, abandoning their attack on the fleeing Sangheili.

Exactly as he had planned.

A guard of stormtroopers scouted in front of the walker, like peons attending to their king, and they too began to drop to their knees and fire as K'dar neared. Snatching plasma grenades from his belt, he tossed two, the blasts eradicating half of the troopers and blinding a significant portion of the survivors.

In clearing his way to the walker, however, he also removed the threat of friendly fire from the minds of the walker's gunners. Green lasers began to strike the ground all around him, shaking the ground and sending waves of heat washing over them.

K'dar's shields were depleting steadily when one of the gunners scored a lucky close hit, landing a laser a half-dozen meters behind him. The remainder of K'dar's shields absorbed the bulk of the blast, saving his life, but the force of the explosion still picked him up like a child and tossed him a dozen meters forward, landing with bone-crunching force on the pavement underneath the walker.

For a split-second, he passed into unconsciousness, before he was rudely removed from that pleasant nothingness by two sensations; noise and pain. The former returned slowly, gradually building up in volume until it drowned out the roaring of blood in his ears. The latter was instantaneous; the screeching discord of strained muscles and even the stabbing, breath-robbing wracks of a broken rib.

K'dar snarled, ignoring the screaming protests of his body as he dragged himself back to his feet. He was almost there; this was no time to lay down and die.

Fortunately, the explosion had tossed him directly underneath the walker, where its weapons could not reach. However, the other walkers nearby were more than capable of hitting him, as he found out as a pair of green bolts streaked by much too close for comfort.

Attaching his sword to his waist, K'dar sprinted to the nearest leg, leaping as high as he could and seizing on a protruding edge. Fortunately, the durasteel plates of the walker provided a multitude of hand and foot-holds, and K'dar swarmed up the side of the mechanical beast within seconds.

Crouching low once he reached the top so as to avoid skylining himself and providing a golden opportunity for the other walkers that milled around, searching for a shot, he ran along the spine of the walker towards the massive turret, and the single Imperial that manned it, who was currently facing away from K'dar.

When he was halfway there, the Imperial abruptly swung about, sending the turret's barrel swiping towards K'dar's chest. Eyes widening in alarm, K'dar dropped flat, feeling the air rush by as the turret swung overhead.

Seizing the opportunity, K'dar rose up and sprinted the last few meters to the turret's controls, leaping over the turret barrel when the operator attempted to swing it back again and knock the offending Sangheili off. Lacking the time for finesse, K'dar simply stunned the operator with a pair of rapid blows to the head, and then disengaged the trooper's restraints, bodily hauling the stunned Imperial out of the turret and tossing him callously off the twelve-meter high walker to the pavement below.

As he did so, he noted that the insistent whine of his combat harness' alarms was still pulsing in his ears, and his shield bar had yet to recharge; the system must have been overloaded by that last blast.

A flurry of green lasers streaked by from another walker, and K'dar dropped down to his knees, searching for the hatch he knew must be close by. Without shields, he would have to be extremely fast in order to finish his plan.

He found the hatch a few meters to his right. Re-igniting his plasma sword, he made four quick slashes around the hatch's sides and then delivered a kick to its center, dropping the weakened metal into the cabin below and providing him with an entrance.

Almost immediately a hail of blaster fire streaked up out of the ruined hatch, forcing him to lean back in surprise, his nostrils flaring at the scent of ozone. Unfortunately, he found no relief, as the panicking commanders of the other walkers had apparently ordered their men to utilize any means necessary. Green lasers filled the air around him, criss-crossing in deadly patterns as they drew ever nearer to him.

He couldn't stay up here, and they were waiting for him inside. A most interesting predicament, but one that he needed to solve quickly if he wished to complete his mission.

Another emerald laser screamed past nary a meter from his head.

That made his decision for him. He palmed another plasma grenade, dropped it through the open hatch, waited for a second, and then dropped through, praying his timing was correct.

It was. The explosion had barely faded when K'dar dropped into the walker like something from a child's worst nightmare, energy sword in hand and mandibles snapping in anger.

Judging from the blackened bodies, that first explosion had killed about three men. As K'dar's eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of the walker, he saw four more stumbling around, attempting to refocus their own eyes after the sudden blinding sapphire light of the grenade.

He would not give them that opportunity. Lunging forward, he disemboweled the first trooper with a lightning-fast cut. Preserving his momentum into a forward roll, K'dar cut down the next two with back-to-back slashes, wincing as he felt his cracked rib move again.

The final trooper loomed before him, his armor painted with secondary yellow stripes that K'dar knew were the symbol for commander. His assumption about this being the leading walker had been correct.

The commander held in his hand a blaster pistol, which he was attempting to aim even as he backpedaled towards a door behind him.

K'dar flipped his grip on his sword, rearing back and throwing it forward like a lance at the same time as the commander fired.

Two red lasers streaked by K'dar's head, raising blisters along his cheek from the extreme heat.

And K'dar's throw was true, the blade spearing the commander through the chest. Stumbling backwards and gurgling in pain and shock, the Imperial fell against a wall, sliding down to the ground.

K'dar strode by, stopping only to pull his sword out of the Imperial's chest, hearing the man gasp in pain as the blades of plasma were withdrawn.

K'dar glanced around. The room he was in appeared to be the control room; filled with delicate instruments and holoscreens, but nothing of real crippling value. However, the door which the Imperial commander had been trying to reach had a glowing red sign marked "Engineering".

_How convenient, _K'dar thought dryly.

The door slid open before him, revealing a short, dark hallway flanked on either side by multiple vertical cylinders and pipes. The pipes all fed into a single, blocky chunk of metal in the center of the room that pulsed with a blue energy.

K'dar strode forward. It was obviously the power source for the walker. If he overloaded this, the resulting explosion should be large enough to destroy at least this vehicle, if not others.

He had just made his peace with himself and raised his sword to plunge it into the block when a sudden searing pain exploded in his left calf. Roaring in pain, he dropped to one knee, turning around to see a smoking, cauterized hole in his leg.

K'dar whirled around.

Standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall for support and clutching a blaster pistol in his hand with a dogged determination, was the Imperial commander.

"Impossible," K'dar whispered, even as the Imperial raised his pistol again. To survive an energy sword to the chest was an impressive enough feat, but to somehow muster the strength to stagger forward a dozen meters and fire a weapon accurately? That was borderline incredible. K'dar felt a sudden surge of respect towards this nameless Imperial.

Apparently it had taken all of the Imperial's strength to come this far, however; as the man attempted to hold up the blaster pistol again, it began to slip from his fingers, and clattered to the floor.

Summoning his strength, K'dar stood up again, limping over to the Imperial commander. "You have a great determination, Imperial," he growled as he kicked the blaster pistol away. "I would desire to look upon my opponent's face before I kill him."

The trooper made no response, looking up at K'dar as he grasped futilely at the wounds in his chest.

Reaching out, K'dar pulled the helmet off of the Imperial's head.

He blinked in surprise. He knew the Imperials were humans, but he had always expected them to be somehow different.

This man looked completely human. He had a strong jawline, and a dramatic shock of black hair; overall, a face not to unsightly for his kind.

K'dar felt a thrill of alarm. When it had been revealed that humanity were the selected of the Forerunners, that secret had rocked the foundation of Sangheili culture. If these humans were completely separate from those K'dar had interacted with, then what other secrets of the Forerunners would be uncovered in this war?

It was a chilling thought.

"Go on, you alien bastard," the Imperial growled, coughing violently. "Just do it already, I dare you."

"As you wish," K'dar said, and beheaded him.

The trooper's corpse crumpled slowly to the ground, and a sudden rustle came from the doorway.

Turning around, K'dar saw a squad of stormtroopers standing in the entrance, blaster rifles leveled at his chest.

Two things happened within an instant of each other. The Imperials fired, a salvo of lasers searing K'dar's flesh as he dropped to his knees.

And K'dar let roll his last plasma grenade towards the walker's reactor.

K'dar's mandibles spread in a contented smile, and then everything vanished in a blast of white light.

000

A sudden explosion, unique in its violence and suddenness, shattered the air. Turning from where he was directing the retreat of the N'tho Creche, H'rel Bamr saw a massive conflagration arising from the center of the Imperial lines, the fireball expanding outwards to consume at least three of the Imperial walkers in its raging depths.

H'rel clasped a fist across his heart as he watched the fireball rise. "May the Forerunners bless you, K'dar Sroam," he whispered.


	22. CSAR

**A/N: I'm baaaacckk! (cue guitar solo)  
>Alright, I suppose I owe you all an explanation for the four-month hiatus. They say life is what happens to you while you're busy planning other things, and if that's the case, I've had a lot of "happenings" lately. School, sports, family stuff, computer troubles, writer's block; the works. In any case, I would like to say that at no point did I forget about you all. I saw the one-year anniversary of this story was coming up and I figured I had to get something out before then. So, I ate some chips, logged in to Pandora, and settled in to blast through that pesky writer's block; the last half of this chapter was written in a single marathon session, and I would like to thank you all for giving me the inspiration to finish it.<br>So here you go. Happy Anniversary. **

Chapter XXII

New Arcadia, Psi Olympus System, UNSC FLEETCOM Sector 6

Emerald Haven, Illerean Subcontinent, Western District

April 1st, 2593, 1134 hours

The senior command personnel of the 8th Corps watched the fall of the Scarab through the black-and-white FLIR imaging from a circling RQ-9 Overseer drone, but that did little to lessen the blow. Everyone in the command room of Fort Briggs, from the lowest-level aide on up, knew what the loss of the Scarab meant for the defense of Emerald Haven.

"Dammit!" General Pershing shouted, curling his fingers into a fist and slamming it into the holotable. The display flickered for a moment, returning to its original state a moment later.

Without the Scarab, the Sangheili would be unable to maintain their position in the Patrick A. Mellows Financial Plaza, and without the Sangheili occupying that central location in the Allied line, the entire defense would fold in on itself.

"Sir!" said one of the COM technicians. "Incoming priority hail on the joint command channel."

Pershing frowned. For simplicity's sake, the UNSC and Separatist forces usually operated on different networks, with the UNSC making use of the common radio frequencies while the Separatists used their BattleNet. However, in joint operations like this, a mother command frequency would be set up to foster quick communications between the two factions.

It must be K'dar, Pershing thought. He had only met with the Sangheili briefly, but the Ultra had seemed like a capable commander and warrior. "Patch him through."

"Yes, sir." One of the holoprojectors stuttered, then resolved into an image of a Sangheili. However, it was not K'dar; this Sangheili was clad in bright red armor, and due to the way the picture was jumping and experiencing sudden bursts of interference, he seemed to be running.

Pershing frowned. "Identify yourself," he said.

"Major H'rel Bamr, N'tho Creche," the Major said between gasping breaths. "I have contacted you to-"

"Where's K'dar?" Pershing asked pointedly. "And what are you doing on the joint command channel?"

H'rel's mandibles twitched in irritation. "K'dar is dead," he said, glancing back over his shoulder at something.

Pershing blinked. "What? How? When?"

H'rel shook his head in annoyance at the questions. "Just a short while ago," he said. "He stayed behind to delay the Imperials."

Pershing leaned forward. "He stayed behind?"

"The commander went on an honor mission to redeem himself for the destruction of the Scarab," H'rel explained. "But before he left, he placed me in command and told me to withdraw."

Pershing swiveled his jaw around for a moment, cursing the Sangheili and their thrice-damned obsession with honor. Now the UNSC's most powerful allies were under the leadership of a Major Domo, and in a state of retreat from the looks of it.

"Sir," H'rel said, appearing to duck something. "The Imperial advance will pick up again momentarily; what are our orders?"

The room was strangely quiet for a few precious seconds, only the background whir of the computers and equipment breaking the silence. Pershing became aware of nearly all the eyes in the room looking at him.

They expected him to make a decision. They put their faith in him as their commander, and he would not disappoint.

Planting his hands on the edge of the holotable, Pershing studied the chaotic mess it presented. The blue Allied forces were steadily being pushed back towards the river, while the red bulge of the Imperial advance had begun to pick up steam.

The bridges were the key, Pershing knew. Five bridges had spanned the Perrel at the start of the battle, separating the Eastern and Western Districts. Since then, Imperial aerial attacks on supply convoys had destroyed all but two, the Westhampton and the Lafayette. The river would serve as a final line of defense, but those bridges needed to be held at all costs in order to evacuate the surviving Allied forces across to the Western District.

"Sir!" H'rel pressed, his voice urgent. "I beg of you, what are our orders?"

"Continue the retreat," Pershing said. "Do not stop to engage, just move your men as fast as you can across the river. Form defensive positions at the bridgeheads; you're going to cover our retreat."

"Understood," H'rel growled. A second later, the connection terminated.

"Contact Settleton," Pershing ordered. "Tell him to pull the 192nd Cavalry back to cover the Elites' flank. And get me on the horn with Harth ASAP." He stomped over to the large holoscreen, expecting the grizzled Marine's face to appear at any moment.

It didn't. The screen remained resolutely dark.

Pershing frowned, a ball of dread beginning to coalesce in his stomach. Harth would never ignore a priority hail.

"Well?" he asked. "Where's that link?"

"Chasing it, sir," the comms tech replied, swiveling back and forth between consoles as his fingers hammered away at holographic keyboards, "but the signal's weak and intermittent. It doesn't appear to be coming from the 43rd's current position either."

"What-?" Pershing began, but the connection finally clicked as the screen erupted in a blast of static and white noise that finally broke to reveal Harth.

His head was at an angle to the screen, and a ragged bloody gash ran down the left side of his face. The staccato chatter of gunfire could be heard in the background dueling with the whining crashes of Imperial laserfire. The image was shot through with occasional bursts of static.

"Harth!" Pershing gasped, his concern for his fellow general temporarily overriding military etiquette. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"My bird took a missile," Harth explained. "Went down right in the middle of the damned Imperial army." He looked away from the screen for a moment, and then raised an arm. An M6G pistol was firmly in his grasp, and he fired two shots at some off-screen antagonist. "I don't think they've realized it yet-we're just dealing with some stragglers right now-but when they do, we're going to have a shit-ton of boys in white breathing down our necks. I'll have to make this call quick before they home in on my signal."

Pershing swore; the last thing they needed was for Harth to get captured. If the Imperials could figure out his rank, that would be a powerful bargaining chip.

"Where are you and what's your situation?" he asked, skirting over to the holotable.

Harth paused before answering. "We went down just east of the Nielson Mall; crashed into the southern side of the Bureaugard Financial Tower."

"What floor?"

"Twenty-second," Harth gritted out. "At least, I think. We crashed somewhere around the twenty-fourth, but went through at least two floors before we stopped."

"And your situation?" Pershing pressed as a blue dot appeared on the holotable indicating Harth's location.

"FUBAR, sir," Harth replied. "Our Pelican smashed through , and I'm stuck inside the cockpit. The pilot's dead. I've got my security detail-four men-and both crew chiefs still alive, but we're all pretty banged up." He winced as he shifted position. "And I'm fairly certain my leg is broken." He glanced up and fired another shot from his magnum. "Come quick."

The image suddenly vanished in an ocean of static, stuttering a few more times as the feed tried to reestablish itself before disappearing for good.

"What the hell?" Pershing demanded.

"Signal was terminated at its source, sir," the com tech said.

Pershing squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment, fighting to regain a coherent thought process before opening them to scrutinize the holotable.

The retreat was going well so far; the Allied forces were withdrawing at a consistent pace, the units covering each other as they fell back to the bridgehead. Harth's transport had gone down just ahead of a large salient in the UNSC line.

The window to successfully extract the general had been tiny to begin with, but it was shrinking exponentially by the minute.

"What kind of forces do we have in the vicinity?" Pershing demanded.

"The closest unit is the 287th Marine BCT," informed one of his aides, pointing at the holotable, "but they're under heavy pressure on three sides; it's unlikely that they would be able to mount a counter attack."

"Are there any available special-missions capable forces? CSAR, SpecOps, anything?" Pershing pressed.

"All of them are currently committed to other operations," the aide replied. "We could recall a squad or two, but by the time they got there, it would be too late."

Pershing closed his eyes. He refused to accept the fact that they might be unable to rescue the Marines.

"Are you sure we have no one available?" he asked one last time out of blind hope.

"None, sir," his aide repeated.

Pershing bowed his head, already beginning to say a prayer for the souls of those brave Marines.

There was a second of silence in the room, then, "Well, actually…"

Pershing's head whipped up. "What do you mean, 'well actually'?"

The aide swallowed. "None of _our _forces are available, sir," he clarified, before gesturing towards the holotable. "But the Outsiders are."

Pershing stalked over to the holotable, noting the orange square near the western bridgehead of the Lafayette that denoted where the Outsider forces were being kept, ostensibly to help secure the area, but really to keep them in a contained location.

"They're currently being held in reserve," the aide said. "But I'm sure they would be more than willing to fight."

"Of course," Pershing muttered, before looking up. "Contact the Outsider battalion," he snapped. "I want those 'Jedi' inbound to the crash site yesterday!"

"Sir!" barked the com technician, scrambling back to his station.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, sir?" asked a colonel. "After all, we're extracting highly sensitive personnel here. Is that something we want to trust to these Outsiders-?"

"Son," Pershing interrupted, his voice a bass growl, "those Outsiders are the only chance we have left. And judging from the number they did on those walkers, I'd say we can trust 'em."

000

Jedi Knight Ahsoka Tano leaned out the side door of the LAAT/i gunship as it wove through the maze of crumbling, burning skyscrapers of Emerald Haven's Eastern District. The battle raged on below, above, and all around them, and the pilot had to keep a fine balance-not flying so high as to attract attention from enemy fighters, but not so low as to draw the attention of ground based anti-air. The LAAT/i, or "larty" as it was affectionately known, could take and dish out a lot of punishment, but it was a slow, lumbering target for the viciously-fast Siener subfighters.

Turning away from the open door, she glanced back into the troop bay. Six clone commandos, their armor painted over in a secondary red to signify their desertion from the Empire, sat inside, performing final checks on their blasters and armor seals. They were all highly qualified, each a veteran of Republic Special Forces, and well versed in all manner of operational environments. She trusted them with her life.

She just hoped that the UNSC would trust them as well.

When the UNSC general had first contacted the two Jedi, frantic and demanding, Ahsoka's first reaction had been joyful. Since the raid, they had contributed very little to the defense of the city, something that irked her to no end. Having the general come to them with a plea for help was a confirmation of their abilities and usefulness.

But now, as they wound closer and closer to their destination, she began to realize more and more what a tall order indeed this task was.

They were to insert near the Nielson Mall, enter the Bureaugard Financial Tower, battle their way through who-knew-how-many stormtroopers to the twenty-second floor, secure the wounded general, and then transport him to the roof-an additional ten stories up-for exfil.

Simple in theory. But with nearly the entire Imperial Army standing in between them and the river, it would be a tricky proposition to transport a wounded general safely back to friendly hands.

What was it Anakin had always told her during training? Ah, yes: _Self-doubt becomes self-fulfilling. _

Unfortunately, Anakin was not accompanying her on this mission; he had instead been requested by the UNSC general to act as a combat liaison between the Allied and Republic troops as they attempted to set up a unified defense at the bridges.

Ahsoka set her jaw. She had never shied away from a challenge before, and she would certainly not stop now. Anakin may not be with her, but she was a Jedi Knight, more than capable of completing a mission on her own.

"Ma'am," said the pilot, "we're nearing the LZ. ETA two minutes."

"Understood," Ahsoka replied, turning back from the open bay door. "Sergeant Flint," she said to the leader of the clone squad. "Your IFF beacons are functional?"

"Yes, ma'am," Flint answered. The whole squad had been given UNSC- issue IFF transponders in order to reduce the likelihood of a blue-on-blue, and Ahsoka wanted to make sure there were no foul-ups. It wouldn't do at all to get shot by the very people they intended upon rescuing.

"Good," Ahsoka said. "I want this quick, clean, and precise. We don't have time to get caught in an extended engagement."

Flint nodded. "Understood, ma'am."

"ETA one minute," the pilot interjected. "LZ looks clear from here, but I'd keep my eyes about," he suggested.

"Copy that," Ahsoka replied, walking back over to the bay door and unclipping her lightsaber from her belt.

The LAAT dipped lower, breaking free from the towering skyscrapers for a moment as the Nielson Mall loomed ahead, the walls pitted with craters. A giant sign that had somehow escaped the destruction around it unscathed advertised the "Best Shopping In-System" in garish pink letters. The briefing had said that their target had gone down just east of the mall, so they would be landing several hundred meters away to avoid attracting undue attention before they moved in.

Ahsoka was nearly thrown out the bay doors as the LAAT was suddenly rocked by a volley of lasers. Just as she was about to slip out into oblivion, the strong hand of Sergeant Flint locked around her arm, hauling her bodily back into the craft as a pair of Imperial subfighters flashed past.

Breathlessly, she nodded her thanks to the sergeant as she sought support against the bay wall. The gunship pitched and heaved violently as the pilot struggled to maintain control, and when she looked outside, she saw an obsidian smoke plume trailing from their starboard engine.

"Change of plans," the pilot said over the intercom, his voice strained from concentration as the gunship began to even out. "It's gonna be a hot drop. Get ready to jump."

Ahsoka glanced back out the bay door. The ground was coming up at an increasingly rapid pace, and while she could use the Force to control their descent, the clones had not come equipped for a bail-out.

Nonetheless, they were well-trained. They would have to make the best of it. The subfighters were already coming around for another pass, their dark forms swooping in like angular birds of prey.

"Get ready!" the pilot yelled.

Ahsoka inched even closer to the open bay door, feeling the wind rip at her clothes as the gunship dipped to a mere hundred meters above the ground. The clones were moving to secure weapons and gear with an aura of professionalism, seemingly undaunted by the fact that they were about to jump out of a moving gunship.

A burst of green lasers streaked past the juking LAAT as the subfighters fired their first salvo, missing by mere meters.

Ahsoka knew the next volley would hit home.

"Now!" the pilot bellowed, and Ahsoka didn't hesitate. Flexing her legs, she leaped into space, the six commandos following in short order.

No sooner did the sensation of free-fall grip her then a wave of sound and heat suddenly washed over her, her eardrums popping as the overpressure wave of the explosion swept past.

Ahsoka didn't have the time to thank the pilot for his sacrifice; the ground was rushing up at her with incredible speed. Reaching out with the Force, she slowed her speed and that of the clones to a more manageable descent, hitting the ground with a roll to absorb the momentum of the fall.

Still, it hurt. The pavement was hard and unforgiving, and her left shoulder wrenched a little bit as it hit, sending a brief lance of pain up her arm. Wincing, she gritted her teeth and finished the roll, coming up covered in scrapes and bruises but otherwise whole.

The clones fared a little better, having the advantage of armor, but the landing was still hard. They dropped out of the sky around her like comets, hitting the ground in rolls and somersaults.

"Team!" Ahsoka called as soon as she could get her feet underneath her. "Find some cover!"

The clones responded immediately, following her to a position of shelter behind a flipped vehicle.

Ahsoka glanced around at the squad. All of them looked fine, aside from a few new scratches and dents in their armor, but she wanted to make sure before they started moving.

"Everyone alright?" she asked.

The clones exchanged glances, and then Flint spoke up. "We're all good, ma'am. Couple of bruises and rolled ankles, but nothing serious."

"What about gear?" Ahsoka pressed.

"Dav and Harrow lost their rifles," Flint said, gesturing to two clones that were currently checking the plasma gas cartridges in their pistols. "And we're all missing a thermal det or two."

"Then we'll have to improvise," Ahsoka said determinedly. "We don't have time to look for them. Let's move."

"Yes, ma'am," the clones replied, arming up.

Ahsoka led them back across the mall parking lot, skirting the edges of a skirmish near the front of the mall between a pair of UNSC Warthogs and a platoon of stormtroopers. They couldn't afford to be caught up in any unnecessary conflicts.

Bureaugard Avenue ran along the eastern border of the mall strip, marking the divide between the mall and the principally-financial centers on the other side. The Tower was clearly visible, a glittering pinnacle of steel and glass now pockmarked with shell holes. While not even close to the tallest building in the city, the Tower was still an impressive sight.

Furthermore, a squad of Imperials were currently running towards the front steps, almost certainly heading to bolster the siege on the downed UNSC soldiers.

"Kill them!" Ahsoka yelled, and the clones opened fire, picking off several of the stormtroopers in the first volley. Ahsoka ignited her lightsaber, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she spun it in elegant circles and patterns to intercept the Imperial return fire before it reached the clones.

"Clear!" Flint reported when the last Imperial had fallen.

"Move up," Ahsoka ordered, leading the squad across the avenue, lightsaber in hand in case one of the stormtroopers wasn't quite as dead as they were letting on.

They stopped briefly at the steps as Dav and Harrow procured some blaster rifles from the dead troopers before entering the lobby.

Only a few days ago, it must have been an impressive sight, Ahsoka realized. The lobby was huge, a checkered tile floor lined with decorative plants and benches. To the left and right, balconies and floors rose up into infinitude, while a pillared promenade led up to a large oak receptionist's desk, behind which were the elevators and staircases that serviced the upper floors.

Now, the ornate columns were riddled with bullet holes, the floor scarred and melted by lasers. The decorative plants were tipped over, their casings shattered, spilling dirt over the once-flawless floor. Coagulated blood was splashed against one of the walls, and spent shell casings and plasma gas cartridges littered the floor.

Ahsoka reflexively brought up a hand to her nose, recoiling at the stench of spent gunpowder and ozone.

"Lifts are dead, ma'am," said one of the clones as he checked the elevators.

"Of course," she muttered, glancing at the stairwell. "Looks like we're hoofing it."

The stairs were wide, made of polished marble with gilded handrails along the side. The opulence of their surroundings was lost upon the Jedi and clones, however; as they ascended, the sound of gunfire could be heard more and more clearly.

Running up the stairs, they reached the twenty-second floor in a manner of minutes, the well-trained troopers hardly even breathing heavily from the exertion. A quick check of her surroundings oriented Ahsoka to the southern wing of the floor, which appeared to be made up of mainly small offices and cubicles. A quick hand signal from Ahsoka signaled the clones to break up into three-man fireteams, advancing in a leapfrog manner.

The sound of gunfire was even louder now, echoing through the halls of the tower. That was good; it meant that their targets were still alive.

And then, as they turned a corner in a tight hallway, they practically walked into the middle of the firefight.

The next complex of offices had been torn apart. The wreck of a UNSC Pelican dropship, its nose and wings crumpled from the impact of the crash, had skidded across the floor, leaving a path of destruction in its wake to where it now rested in the center of the room. A gaping hole had been smashed through the ceiling, and beyond that was another hole in the next floor, creating a visible path of the Pelican's crash. A beleaguered few men in familiar UNSC uniforms were hunkered down near the wreck, exchanging intermittent fire with at least a dozen stormtroopers who, for now, had their backs turned to Ahsoka and the clones.

"Open fire!" Ahsoka yelled, and leapt forwards, activating her lightsaber. As the beryl blade ignited, she was already in motion, bringing it across in a vicious sweep that neatly decapitated the first unfortunate trooper in her sights.

The clones spread out, taking up flanking positions on either side of the room as they poured fire into the suddenly-besieged stormtroopers. As blue and red lasers flashed back and forth, a niggling sensation in the back of Ahsoka's mind warned her of danger. Spinning around, she brandished her lightsaber in a quick flourish, deflecting a pair of bolts into the ceiling.

Keeping her blade in the "on guard" position, she waved up the clone team, leading them across the room. At the sight of the unexpected relief, the remaining UNSC soldiers also pushed up, trapping the stormtroopers between the two Allied elements.

In a matter of seconds, it was over. Ahsoka stood over the dismembered corpse of a stormtrooper sergeant and closed down her lightsaber, lifting her eyes up to find all of the UNSC soldiers still hunkered down behind cover, their assault rifles in the "ready" position.

"Thunder!" one of them challenged, straightening a little bit.

"Flash," she replied without hesitation, remembering the correct answer phrase that Pershing had drilled into her before the mission was launched.

The man, extracted himself from behind a flipped-over desk that was still smoldering from blaster fire. "Well, you're not the relief we were expecting, but we're not in any condition to complain."

"Ahsoka Tano, Jedi Knight," the Togrutan introduced herself. "This is Sergeant Flint." The clone dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"First Sergeant Marcus Steel," the Marine replied. "I wish there was more time for introductions, but we need to get out of here now."

"I'm all for that," Ahsoka said, looking around. "So where's the general?"

"Still in the bird," Steel said, gesturing to nearly-destroyed Pelican with the muzzle of his assault rifle.

"Well then let's get him out," Ahsoka said determinedly, striding over to the wrecked Pelican with Steel close in tow.

"Friendlies coming in," Steel called as they clambered into the Pelican's troop bay.

"Great, just when I was getting comfortable," grumbled a voice dripping with sarcasm from the inside of the cockpit.

Ahsoka shook her head, jogging up to the doorway that separated the cockpit from the bay. Ducking her head under the threshold, she straightened up…

…and nearly vomited all over the floor.

The scene was macabre, to say the least. The pilot was still in his seat, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, spine snapped from the impact of the crash. A razor-sharp piece of the shattered window was lodged in his eye, causing a fountain of blood to trickle down his face and all over the cockpit.

"Pretty, ain't it?" rasped the sarcastic voice from before, and Ahsoka turned to her right to see General Luke Harth seated in the copilot's seat. He was short and stocky, dressed in a set of urban-camouflaged fatigues with two stars pinned on the shoulders and cap. A salt-and-pepper beard covered his chin, and he spat out a globule of blood as he spoke again. "At least you didn't have to hear it. Man's neck broke like a twig."

Ahsoka winced momentarily, but quickly regained her composure. "Are you alright?"

"Well, apart from the small matter of a broken leg, I think I'm fine," Harth gritted out, wincing as he attempted to shift his lower body.

Ahsoka glanced down, and saw to her horror that the general's left leg had been caught underneath the cockpit instruments when the nose of the Pelican had crumpled, and was now trapped underneath the twisted metal. If they were going to evacuate him, he would first have to be freed.

She knew there was no way they would be able to pull back the metal; he had surely already tried, and the general looked to be much stronger than Ahsoka.

However, she did have an ace up her sleeve. Her hand darted down, plucking her lightsaber from her belt and igniting it with a swift, purposeful motion.

"Whoah!" Harth protested, holding up his hands, and Steel came rushing into the cockpit. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded, then saw the blade of energy in her hand. "You can't be serious-" he began.

"Unless you have a better idea, first sergeant," Ahsoka gritted out, "this is our only option. You wouldn't happen to have a saw of some sort around?"

Steel faltered. "Um, well, no, ma'am, but still-"

"But nothing," Ahsoka asserted. "We don't have the time for anything else."

A sudden chatter of automatic gunfire arose outside the cockpit, and a second later a voice yelled out, "Imperials!"

"It appears your services are needed elsewhere, sergeant," Ahsoka said, and without further ado, turned back to face Harth.

"Trust me," she said, and, without waiting for a response, plunged the lightsaber into the crumpled metal.

Harth swore at the sudden increase in ambient heat, jumping a little bit.

"Be still," Ahsoka chided as she called upon the Force to ascertain the location of the general's leg, guiding the emerald blade through the wrecked instrument panel. Dials and displays melted and the metal peeled back in the face of the extreme heat as she sawed determinedly around Harth's trapped limb. Outside, the battle had been joined in earnest, the crackling of lasers and rifles an insistent reminder that their time was running short.

"Just…a little bit…further…" Ahsoka muttered, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she began the final cut to free the general.

"There!" With one last incision, the plate of offending metal surrendered, peeling back to reveal Harth's injured leg. Uttering a triumphant cry, Ahsoka ripped the sheet away, tossing it to the cockpit floor.

Harth grunted in relief, and Ahsoka noted with concern that the imprint of the metal was clearly visible in a thin line of blood across his fatigues. His lower leg was also twisted at an angle to his knee, clearly broken from the crash. No bones protruded from the skin, so fortunately it did not appear to be a compound fracture, but there was no reason to risk an action that would cause one to develop.

"Lean on me," Ahsoka said, offering her arm to the Marine. Harth took it without complaint, cognizant of the fact that he could not walk on his own.

Ahsoka staggered for a second as the Marine wrapped his arm around her neck; Harth was built like a fireplug, and for the slight Togrutan Jedi, it was all she could do to keep from falling over.

With halting, uncertain steps, the Jedi and the general limped their way back through the Pelican's troop bay. As they exited the ruined aircraft, Ahsoka gently set Harth down with his back against the Pelican's fuselage. Harth muttered a brief thanks, dragging his magnum from its holster to begin determinedly popping off rounds at the stormtroopers downrange.

Casting her eyes about the firefight, Ahsoka was grieved to see that two clones and a Marine had been killed, further depleting their already-meager rescue force.

"First sergeant!" Ahsoka yelled, her voice hoarse as she tried to make herself heard over the rattling of assault rifles and screech of lasers. Ducking under a burst of red beams, she crossed over to where Steel was hunkered down behind a section of the Pelican's port wing that had been ripped off in the crash, obstinately returning fire against the ever-increasing number of Imperials.

"I got him out!" Ahsoka hollered. "We have to go-"

"Grenade!" someone yelled, and Ahsoka spun around to see a thermal detonator come rolling to a stop near the middle of the Allied troops, the red light on its exterior blinking in rapid succession.

Stretching out her hand, Ahsoka reached for the Force, seizing the deadly explosive and flinging it back towards the Imperial position. It exploded in mid-air, a blast of heat and sound that scalded her lungs as it swept over them.

Turning back to Steel, she found the Marine looking at her with a shocked expression on his face, and she realized that this was probably the first UNSC soldier to ever witness the use of the Force.

Part of her wanted to enjoy that moment of incredulous disbelief for a moment longer, but she knew that was a moment they couldn't afford.

"The general is free!" she yelled again. "We have to move NOW!"

Steel blinked, shaking himself out of his torpor. "Right, right," he said, glancing back towards where Harth was seated. "Wedermeyer! Stevens! On me!" he yelled, then turned to Ahsoka with a single request: "Cover us."

"Gladly," the Jedi replied. "Flint! Get them to a stairwell and get them heading up to the roof." Igniting her lightsaber, Ahsoka straightened, bringing it up to deflect the first laser even as Steel made his move behind her.

At the sight of the Jedi, the stormtroopers shifted their fire, logically seeking to eliminate the greatest threat first. The volume of incoming fire jumped within an instant, and Ahsoka bit her lip in concentration as she spun her lightsaber into a shield of energy in front of her.

It was all about time. Every second she bought was another second for the Marines to move Harth away from the conflict, another second closer to bringing this mission to a successful close.

Spying a weak section of ceiling above, Ahsoka pulled it down with the Force, dropping it onto a pair of stormtroopers and sending up a cloud of choking dust to obscure the sight of the others.

As she did so, she became aware of someone yelling nearly in her ear. Turning her head, she was surprised to see Sergeant Flint at her shoulder, firing resolutely away with his DC-17. "The Marines are clear!" he said, felling a distant trooper with a well-placed blast. "Let's go!"

"Sounds good to me," Ahsoka answered, shifting her lightsaber just in time to stop a bolt that was heading directly for Flint's chestplate. The sergeant grunted his thanks before rolling a pair of sonic grenades towards the advancing Imperials.

The grenades went off in twin concussive blasts, the shockwaves disorienting and deafening the Imperials. Seizing the opportunity, Ahsoka and Flint sprinted back through the office complex to a service stairwell in the southeastern corner of the floor.

With the Marines carrying their wounded general, Ahsoka and the clones assumed a rear-guard position, hurrying up the stairs while keeping their weapons trained below to where the pursuing Imperials would no doubt soon be appearing.

"Blackjack, this is Wild Card," Ahsoka said into her UNSC-issued COM system, which was patched with a direct line to the UNSC HQ. "The package is secure but incapable of walking; we are transporting him to the roof for extraction. Request exfil on the double."

There was a brief interlude of static before the response stated, "Acknowledged, Wild Card. Exfil bird designate 'Foxtrot One-Three' is inbound, ETA eight minutes, acknowledge."

"Acknowledged," Ahsoka replied.

The word had scarcely left her lips when the tramp of armored boots became audible only a few flights below. A quick glance over the railing showed a sea of white-armored helmets bobbing up and down as they stormed up their stairs.

Ahsoka glanced at the wall, where the number "26" was emblazoned in bright yellow letters. Only six floors remaining.

Another glance at the rapidly-gaining stormtroopers confirmed that they would be overtaken before they made it up the next six flights.

Ahsoka grabbed Flint on the shoulder. "Keep running," she said, jerking her head up to indicate the roof. "I'll hold them off."

Flint nodded. "Understood, ma'am." Without pause, he continued up the stairs, leaving Ahsoka standing alone in the stairwell at the threshold of Floor 26.

The pounding of armored boots was nearly deafening now as the stormtroopers grew closer.

In such a narrow space, where the troopers' numbers would be severely limited, Ahsoka should theoretically be able to hold off the Imperials forever. However, these were no mindless droids; they would not continue to simply charge at her and allow the Jedi to cut them apart one at a time. They would throw grenades, advance slowly with a base of fire, and do everything they could to force her to abandon her superior position.

Which was why it was imperative that she eliminate them as quickly as possible, before reinforcements arrived and drew out the battle. Time would not be her ally in this venture.

Ahsoka was fairly certain that the Imperials were as of yet unaware that she had stayed behind. Deciding to leverage that surprise to its utmost, she ducked down beneath the solid concrete rail, holding her lightsaber in her right hand but not yet igniting it.

A few seconds later, the first few stormtroopers swept around the corner into her view.

The cramped nature of the stairwell limited the effectiveness of the Imperials' rifles; they had attempted to mitigate this as much as possible by moving in single file, but it was impossible to avoid entirely.

Ahsoka had no such limitations. The first trooper had barely called out a warning to his comrades and begun to bring his rifle up into firing position when a blast of Force energy sent him flying back into the man behind him and knocking both of them back down the stairs into their fellows.

As the knot of men attempted to untangle themselves, Ahsoka came vaulting over the rail, lightsaber in hand.

Moving with a speed and precision accumulated through years of training, Ahsoka scythed through the first group of troopers she encountered, leaving only a pile of severed limbs behind. Such was the deadly effectiveness of her assault that only a few scattered lasers came her way, which she avoided with ease as she carved her way down the stairway. She moved as if on autopilot, conditioned by countless hours of combat to act and react in a seamless dance. The trooper to her right could be easily felled by a horizontal swipe, she knew, but this would also leave her left side exposed to the Imperials on the flight below her. Thus, the logical move was too step forward, placing another stumbling stormtrooper between her and the others and allowing her to fell both of them with two quick cuts. All of this her mind calculated of its own volition, with hardly a break in its thought. She was unaware of the stench of ozone that filled the air, or of the agonized screams of the man whose arm she had just severed. Such things were extraneous, filtered out by her senses as she focused all her considerable energies upon the sole task of eliminating all those who stood before her. A Jedi Knight in combat needed to be free, at ease, an open vessel through which the power of the Force was channeled and directed.

And so, in a habit she had picked up since her first days of training as a Padawan, Ahsoka began to recite the Jedi Code in her mind, calming her thoughts and steeling her nerves.

A tremor in the Force warned her of approaching danger, and she spun around just in time to bat away a burst of screeching lasers.

_There is no emotion; there is peace._

A diagonal slash laid the man open from shoulder to waist, and he dropped to the ground as she swept past.

_There is no ignorance; there is knowledge._

Reaching out with the Force, she pulled an approaching trooper forward, skewering him neatly on the end of her lightsaber.

_There is no passion; there is serenity._

Three quick cuts felled another trio of foes, her movements as fluid as water.

_There is no chaos; there is harmony._

Spinning her blade in front of her like a shield, Ahsoka deflected the last desperate shots of a lone trooper in her vision a second before her lightsaber found his throat.

_There is no death; there is the Force._

And just like that, it was over. As if awakening from a long dream, everything zoomed back into perspective. She found herself standing in the middle of a stairwell, white-armored corpses strewn all around, the last of which slowly crumpled to the ground in front of her.

Ahsoka closed down her lightsaber, the immediate threat eliminated. A distant clamor indicated the approach of more Imperials, but for now, she was safe.

Drawing upon the Force once more, she sprinted back up the stairs, leaping entire flights at a time. In a few moments, the door to the roof appeared before her, a large, grey portal with yellow-and-black lettering declaring "Emergency Exit Only: Violators Will Be Prosecuted" stamped across the front.

Deciding a possible lawsuit was the least of her problems at the moment, Ahsoka shoved the door open, stumbling out onto the roof of the financial tower.

Immediately, her mind took in two things.

The first was the Pelican dropship that hovered at the edge of the roof a scant eighty meters away, the open bay of which Flint was currently frantically gesticulating to her from.

The second was the titanic jolt that shook the very material under her feet as a flaming LAAT came hurtling out of the nether with all weapons blazing to smash into the western face of the eleventh floor of the tower. Bursting through the hole opened in front of it by its lasers, the gunship came apart in a massive fireball, sending car-sized pieces of debris in all directions that smashed support columns like twigs and tore a complete hole all the way through to the eastern side.

Whether or not the crash was purposeful, whether the pilot was intentionally trying to bring down the tower or just out of control, Ahsoka would never know. What she soon realized, however, was that the impact of the massive troop transport traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour was the death knell for the Bureaugard Financial Tower.

With a support frame already grievously compromised by nearly three days of constant shelling and crashes, the fact that the tower had remained standing up to this point was something of a small miracle. But the wound inflicted by the Imperial gunship proved to be the tipping point, the last straw for the weakened tower.

A long, drawn-out groan filled the air as tons upon tons of weight was shifted to the central support column, and it seemed as if the building itself were crying out in pain. The tower lurched noticeably to the left, and Ahsoka stumbled, falling against a large communications spire for support.

And then there was a blast of sound, so sudden and earsplitting that it drowned out all other sounds with a titanic _crack_.

And the central support column of the Bureaugard Financial Tower, built to withstand a 9.5-magnitude earthquake, snapped.

For a moment, nothing happened. A deathly silence seemed to fall over the area, as if all those nearby stood watching with baited breath to see what would happen next.

Ahsoka didn't wait, springing into action and sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her towards the waiting Pelican.

A second later, with a bass rumble that grew louder and louder, the tower began to fall.

Slowly, at first, but picking up speed as the laws of gravity and momentum worked their magic, the massive tower began to topple, shearing off from the base at around the third story, the last of the support columns crumbling to dust. The ground beneath Ahsoka's fleet began to slant upwards at an ever-steeper angle, causing bits of steel and glass to come raining down on her. Doing her best to dodge the deadly missiles, Ahsoka ran as fast as the Force and her limbs would carry her towards the Pelican that struggled to maintain a constant altitude. She half-ran, half-climbed her way up the elevating roof, scrabbling for purchase as the angle became more and more extreme. If she did not make it within the next few seconds, she would surely plummet the thirty-plus stories to the ground below.

The Pelican was only a few dozen yards away now, hovering just far enough away to avoid being caught in the path of the tower. Ahsoka's muscles were on fire, but she knew she could not go on. Instead, she pushed them even faster. Her heart hammered within her ribs as her right foot finally slipped, unable to maintain a grip at such an extreme incline.

At the exact moment that the tower entered free fall, Ahsoka grabbed a rail in front of her and leapt.

Channeling all of her own strength and that of the Force into that final jump, she soared up into the air, the lip of the roof slipping just below her as the tower smashed down to the ground with a titanic _crash _of shattering steel and glass, sending a pillar of dust far into the air.

Ahsoka soared through the air, arms and legs flailing as she attempted to assert some measure of stability. The Pelican was in front of her, and she was falling towards it, its open troop bay beckoning…

She wasn't going to make it, she realized. It was too far away. A mere dozen meters, but that was all it would take. For all of her effort and determination, all the strength she had put into that last jump, _everything she had_, it simply wasn't enough.

She was a dozen meters too short.

Even a Jedi wouldn't survive a fall from this height.

But as Ahsoka's momentum slowed and her trajectory began to arc back down, the Pelican's engines suddenly roared to life. With a burst of speed, the angular craft reared back, looming in front of her as its open bay doors slipped just underneath her fall.

Ahsoka hit the metal floor of the troop bay with tremendous force, practically bouncing off the hard, unforgiving metal and nearly falling out again. Crying out in panic as she slid off the end of the open ramp, her fingers caught on a ridge in the metal, nearly ripping her shoulder from its socket as she dangled from the end of the Pelican hundreds of feet above the ground.

For a moment she thought that this was the universe's cruel, twisted idea of a joke, that she would be miraculously rescued only to die a few seconds later, but then a gauntleted hand wrapped around her own, and she found herself being pulled up and bodily heaved into the troop bay of the Pelican, where she lay panting, her limbs shaking from adrenaline.

"I suppose that makes us even, eh?" said the man who had hauled her in, and Ahsoka looked up to see none other than First Sergeant Marcus Steel, standing with his arms crossed and a grin on his face.

Ahsoka grinned back, an expression of profound relief and gratefulness. "Yeah, I guess it does," she said. "I guess it does."

**A/N: By the way, I've been getting a lot of feedback saying that the battle is taking too long, and that I need to wrap it up, and frankly, I agree. I hadn't intended for the Battle for New Arcadia to end up taking this long. However, once I wrote myself into it, I couldn't just stop; I had to write my way back out. Since this is the first real meeting between the Star Wars and Halo armies, I really wanted to play it up. That said, the next chapter will be bringing it to a close. After that, the plot'll start rolling along again at a good clip. Thanks for the patience. **


End file.
